


The Precision of The Fall

by snarklyboojum



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe - Vietnam Era, F/M, Knife Throwing, M/M, Wall of Death, big cat training, circus animals coming to a bad end (though no animal abuse), driving under the influence, latent PTSD, previous cross-dressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 09:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 36,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarklyboojum/pseuds/snarklyboojum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They used to be called The Family Winchester.  People came from miles around to see their act, knowing their names and faces before the circus even rolled into town.  Life was shiny with salt and sawdust, sequins and smiles.  Now, all that was left were a few crumpled posters, an empty bunk next to Dean's, and the leather-gripped knives hidden in the trick pockets of his vest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Precision of The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Special shout out to daggomus-prime, my brain twin, for her patience and utterly breathtaking artwork. I couldn’t have done it without her. [Click here to view the accompanying art for this piece on her livejournal.](http://daggomus-prime.livejournal.com/32965.html)
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://behindblue-eyes.livejournal.com/252302.html).

_Damn everything but the circus._ \- Corita Kent

It wasn’t like he actually needed to practice. Dean could drive the Indian backwards, frontwards, sideways, no-handed, hung-over, and laying down. But the old girl had been in lockdown for two months and that would do things to any motorcycle, even one as awesome as her. It had broken his heart a little to put her away last winter but he had to admit there was nothing quite like the feel of unearthing his beauty, running his hands down her flanks and relearning the curves of her all over again. Not that he could really forget how she felt under him; you don’t neglect something like a 1928 Indian 101 Scout, cherry sweet and black as sin. It almost made up for Bobby and Sam teaming up to guilt-trip him into boarding her while the South Dakota roads were at their worst.

 _The circus isn’t running, Dean_ , Sam had said. _Why should she? It’s not exactly like she’s fresh off the line._ Dean had smacked him in the back of the head for blasphemy – she was a _classic_ , damn it – but admitted, to himself, that his brother sort of-maybe-kind of had a point.

Sam was nowhere to be seen now, though; it was just Dean and his baby, alone on the boards. Ash was at the top of the Wall, doing god knows what to make the lights and microphone work, but if there was one thing Dean had gotten good at since joining up with Carver Circadia it was ignoring Ash. 

So. Dean and his baby. Alone at the bottom of the Wall. It was almost better than sex. It came in a close second, at least, if he was going to make a list of his favorite things.

He’d taken some time earlier to look her over, replacing her filters and topping up all her fluids. She’d been squirreled away in Bobby’s machine shop while the old man vacationed in Florida (which was not an image Dean needed so early in the morning, nor the reminder that he’d come back with an actual _tan_ , which meant Bobby had tan _lines_ and a bathing suit and had been practically _naked_ in _public_ ) so there was very little maintenance she needed. Still, after spending so much time working on her the year before Dean had to be _sure_.

Now she was bright, shiny, and rumbling like a tiger ready to pounce out of her cage. He revved her engine good and loud, picturing people across the lot turning up their radios and covering their ears from the racket. 

The trick to performing – and surviving – the Wall of Death was about maintaining the proper speed necessary and allowing his equilibrium to flow with the bike, not against it. Sam liked to ramble on about _force_ and _velocity_ and _the curvature of motion_ , but Dean thought it was simpler than that: build the speed, don’t let it drift, and don’t let the Wall beat you. He kept his knees tight, arms loose, eyes on the horizon line. Once he got her going in a straight line it was just like trick riding on the highway; a couple revolutions and it was time to wow the rubes. 

He’d work on the fancy stuff for later - now it was just Dean and his lady. He leaned on the gas, letting the old girl tear up the boards as fast as she could.

Just as Dean brought the Indian skidding to a halt at the bottom of the Wall, the distinct sound of Bobby’s sarcastic applause echoed through the sudden silence. Low and behold, the old man stood overlooking the Wall in all his crotchety glory. “I see that helmet we spent good money on got lost somewhere over the holiday.”

After a ride like that not even facing the wrath of Bobby could bring him down. His cheeks were literally aching from grinning so hard. “Aw, this is circus, Bobby! We cheat death twice a day and once on Sunday.”

“Yeah, but not in practice, you idjit, and certainly not during your first time on the Wall in a month. I see safety gear next time or it’s your ass. Speaking of, ain’t you supposed to have somebody here with you? Where’s Sam?”

Sam was god-knows-where doing god-knows-what; Dean hadn’t seen him since before breakfast. But he wasn’t about to admit that to Bobby. “I did have somebody here with me. Say hello, Ash!”

“Hello, Ash.” The electrician threw up a fist without looking up from where he was doing something with a torch and a lot of sparks. “I’ve got Dean’s back, boss-man-Bobby. Not to worry.”

“Oh, _Ash_ was here. That makes everything better. My apologies.” Turned out the twenty foot walls were excellent conductors of scorn as well as noise. _Time to turn on the charm, Winchester_.

“She looked good, though, right?” He leaned against the edge of the wall, letting a hint of cockiness ease into his smile. Bobby was a sucker for classic machines. “Tell me she looked good.”

Bobby grunted and pushed the rope ladder over the side, coming dangerously close to smacking Dean in the face with the weighted ends. (The fact that he hadn’t aimed right for him told Dean all he needed to know – he was forgiven, yet again.) “The old girl runs pretty well for being almost fifty. You change her filters?”

“Yes, _dad_. And her oil, and her gas, and her battery. I do know what I’m doing here. Learned it from the best, after all.”

“Flattery will get you shit. I ain’t scraping you off the boards ‘cause you’re too stubborn to wear a helmet. That bike may be yours but as long as the decal on it says _Carver Circadia_ you follow my rules. Got it?”

“Whatever you say, boss man.” Dean shimmied a leg over the top of the Wall, letting the other hang out into space for a moment before landing the dismount. Still all smiles he rescued his vest from the pile of trash left behind when he’d unearthed his baby that morning. “So tell me, what brings you down to the pit on this crappy ass morning?"

Bobby shuffled his boot through the empty boxes, kicking things around. If Dean didn’t know any better, he’d swear Bobby didn’t want to look him in the eye all of a sudden. "You talked to your brother recently?"

Uh huh. Like that wasn’t ominous as hell. "No more than usual. Why, Bobby, something wrong?"

He sighed, looking off toward the big top in the distance. "Just that you Winchesters are the stubbornest sonsabitches I ever met. It can't be helped now. Group meeting in ten - put her in park and get your ass to the ring.” Bobby turned to go, gesturing over his shoulder to where Ash was unwinding himself from a strand of electrical tape. “Don’t forget your monkey.”

“I heard that! But I’m gonna forgive you ‘cause you pay me in singles and work it so I don’t qualify for taxes.” 

And that, in summary, was why Dean had learned to ignore Ash. Most of the time, anyway.

* * *

By the time Dean and Ash made it to the big top almost everyone else had already arrived, familiar faces filling up the first few rows of seats. Dean had to admit that Bobby’s habit of keeping the same acts over multiple seasons was starting to grow on him; it was nice knowing the empty seats next to Jo and Ellen were reserved for him.

He plopped down next to Jo, tugging on her braid as he got comfortable. Ducking her return shove, he leaned over to grin at Ellen. “Hey, good looking. What’s for lunch?”

Ellen sent a glare his way, a look Dean universally translated as _quit teasing my daughter, you ass_ and shifted over so Ash could have a space. “Nothing if we don’t get this meeting over soon. I still don’t see why I have to be involved in this; it’s not like I don’t hear everything through the cookhouse anyway.”

“Aw, you know Bobby. It’s the first meeting of the season, everyone’s got to be invited.”

“Not everyone,” Jo leaned in close to Dean, mischief curling her smile. “The Seldinis couldn’t renew their visas and I heard Hans never made it back from holiday. Nobody knows why. It’s all very mysterious.”

“Mm hmm.” That meant they were down a trapeze act and a cat trainer. Which could explain why Bobby was looking so stressed… and why Sam had come home smelling questionable the past few nights. Hadn’t he mentioned something about picking up the slack in the menagerie after they got back from Vegas?

Dean sighed and took out one of the knives from his vest pocket, tossing it blade-to-handle in his right hand. Bobby was talking with Rufus on the other side of the hippodrome, gesturing broadly but keeping his voice down. This had all the appearance of a very long meeting.

Jo nudged his knee, careful of the knife on the opposite side. “Speak of the devil, isn’t that your brother moseying in with Ruby? They’re looking awful chummy, aren’t they?“ 

Sure enough, Sam had entered ringside with a short brunette close behind. He leaned down to whisper something in her ear then started picking his way through the crowd toward where Dean had saved him a seat. _Chummy_ was one word for it. Dean was all for a roll in the hay to pass the time but Sam was a usually a little more particular about that sort of thing. He didn’t recognize the girl, which meant Sam hadn’t seen fit to introduce them, which meant Dean wouldn’t approve, which meant trouble on the horizon. Fucking Sammy; if it wasn’t one thing it was another.

He leaned close to Jo’s ear to keep his voice from traveling across the tent. “Hey, Jo? Who’s the bunny?”

Jo, on the other hand, could care less who knew what she was talking about. “You mean Ruby? She’s Hans’s assistant from last season, don’t you remember? She went off with him on vacation and was the only one to come back. And with some lame ass story about Hans _giving the act_ over to her. Which is such complete bullshit it’s not even worth considering.”

Ellen turned from where she was chatting with Ash, snake sharp. “Joanna Beth Harvelle, you may have been born in a barn but you will not behave that way. Watch your mouth, young lady.”

“Sorry, Mom.” Dean couldn’t help smirking over at Jo, who rolled her eyes at him. There were few perks to having an ex-marine kinker for a father, but language etiquette was certainly not one of them.

Jo leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Word is she got kicked out of three circuses before joining up with Hans in Philadelphia two winters ago. Super shady, if you ask me.”

Sam had made his way over to them by that point and squeezed his bulk into the empty space between Dean and the alley. It was only when he tried to sit like a normal person _around_ normal people that Dean remembered exactly how big his little brother was. At this rate, if he got any taller they’d be in freak show territory. “Hey, Jo. Dean. Anything interesting happen yet?”

“Aside from you doing the walk of shame with a tent bunny, you mean? Just the usual.”

And there was Bitchface #3, the one Dean affectionately labeled _Are You Really That Childish_. “Not funny, Dean. Ruby’s not like that.”

“Whatever you say, man.” Dean decided to leave it alone, at least for now. There’d be time to suss things out in the trailer away from prying eyes later on. “Where you been, anyway? We still need to get your bike out of storage and Bobby chewed me out for riding without your gargantuan ass keeping an eye on me.” 

Sam was looking around the room, taking in the crowd, no doubt cataloging who was missing and who remained. “I was busy, Dean. I told you I was going to help feed the cats this morning. You were supposed to wait for me.”

Whatever. Dean didn’t remember anything from this morning aside from the hair of the dog he’d needed to get out of bed. Sam had already been gone by the time he mustered up enough energy to so much as brush his teeth. 

The knife in his hands was starting to give him ideas, making him wonder if he could knock the hat off Bobby’s head from this distance. It was what, ten feet? He probably could. Probably. As long as Bobby didn’t move and nobody jostled his arm or anything. Maybe he should try it, just to get this meeting started and over with already.

When his hand closed around empty air instead of the knife blade he glanced anxiously around his feet. No clanging, no pain – he hadn’t missed it, he was paying attention, what the hell –

Metal flashed in the corner of his eye; Sam wiggled the knife again, smirking. Little _bastard_. “You had that look on your face, man. You’re gonna get yourself into trouble if you don’t quit playing with these things. Don’t you think it’s time to put them away already?”

Sam tossed the knife back at him without looking, Dean’s reflexes (okay, and Sam’s) saving him from a nasty cut. Before he could get out more than a “bitch” in return, Bobby cleared his throat and stepped forward. 

“All right, folks. Sorry to keep y’all waiting. I hope you enjoyed your winter holiday, ‘cause it’s time to start working again. I’m sure you’re aware that we didn’t meet our attendance quota last year. Management is concerned our little show won’t be able to compete with the larger outfits. Mr. Edlund suggested a short season rather than shutting us down completely.”

 _What the fuck?_ Protests rang through the tent, a few performers slipping into foreign languages. Crowley even stood up and started yelling, his ringmaster’s voice booming higher than everyone else’s. Dean was pissed off, too, but at least he wasn’t a fucking drama queen about it.

“All right, all right! Settle down, god damn it. The owner’s agreed to keep funding the show for a full season as long as we keep it in the black. He’s also signed on some new performers and extended the menagerie. I expect you’ll make the new arrivals feel right at home.” 

Sam’s shoulders were tense where they brushed against Dean’s, but his brother ignored him when Dean nudged his knee, staring intently at Bobby instead. The manager went on, oblivious to the tension. “And because I know what the rumor mill’s like in this place I’m gonna set the record straight before things get out of hand. Yes, the Seldini Family were unable to renew their visas. We’ll be importing another group of trapeze artists of the topmost quality – we’re talking Olympic medalists here, people. Also, Hans Greppard has decided not to return as cat wrangler this season. Instead, his assistant Ruby has agreed to take his place… with help from our very own Sam Winchester.”

A quiet rumble went through the crowd, people shifting in their seats. No one turned to look at the two brothers, but Dean could practically feel their attention settle around him like a weight on his shoulders. Sam went still beside him, breathing deeply.

Bobby held up his hands, drawing the crowd to a hush. “We’ve all got to step it up this year, so no slouching. I know you’re all capable of great things, so let’s see it this time. You’ve got four weeks to impress me. Make it happen.”

* * *

Dean kept it together until after the meeting adjourned and the performers started filing out of the big top. Under the circumstances, he thought he deserved a fucking _medal_ for how well he kept it together. Sam was a few paces in front of him, loping forward and determinedly ignoring Dean’s impending meltdown.

“The _cat act_ , Sam? What the _fuck_? Are you seriously telling me you’re ditching the Wall for an _animal act_?”

“I can multitask, Dean, it’s not hard. You do it; you’re an asshole and you breathe at the same time. How tricky can it be?”

“Oh, very funny, bitch. I’m serious!”

“I’m not doing this with you here. I don’t want to do this with you at all.”

“No shit, seeing as you never actually _told me_ you were training for another gig. And we’ll do this wherever I say we’re doing it.” Dean grabbed onto Sam’s elbow, jerking him back. 

Sam’s chest heaved, teeth gritted tight. “ _Dean._ Not. Here.” His eyes flickered behind Dean, and he was suddenly all too aware of the people milling about around them, most likely listening in. Gossip mill, right. 

Dean followed Sam to their trailer and the meager protection from onlookers it offered. (If anyone knew how thin those walls could be it was Dean.) He suspected Sam was using the extra few minutes to figure out an exit strategy, but Dean’d been using the same tactic before Sam was even born. He took advantage of the extra time and exertion to order his thoughts, settle him down a little.

He stood just inside the trailer door, arms crossed. “So you’re what, doing two acts now? You don’t even help out with the one as it is!”

Sam was pacing in the tiny space between their beds, flinging laundry towards the bin in the corner. “Oh please, it’s not like the Wall is challenging or anything. You don’t need me. If I bail now then you have plenty of time to rework the timing of the show. Besides, my bike’s a piece of crap and you never let me drive the Indian, anyway.” 

He had to admit Sam had a point with that one. Still. “I think it’s challenging.”

“No, you don’t. It’s just something to do while you avoid everything else.” Sam sighed, balling up a sock. “We’ve been doing the same tricks twice a day for the past year. Don’t you get tired of that? Don’t you ever want to reach your potential?”

“Of course I get tired, Sam.” Dean was tired every damn minute of every damn day. But not during their act. Those brief moments in sync with his brother on the Wall were the best part of his afternoon. It felt like the only time he could breathe was when he was driving the Indian. His body could relax, muscle memory taking over, eliminating the need to think. 

Leave it to his brother, the giant brain, to look for a way around that.

Sam ran a hand through his hair, pulling it away from his face. “You heard Bobby. Everyone has to contribute triple time unless we want this season to be our last. I’ve been working with the cats and I think I’ve come up with a new way to train them that will revolutionize everything. It’s less aggressive and they’re responding better to it every day.”

“You’ve been working with them? Sam, we only came back from winter break in Vegas two days ago. How long has this been going on?” A muscle in Sam’s jaw twitched from how hard he was grinding his teeth. “Right. Listen to me carefully, Sam, because I’m only saying this once. These are not pets. These are unpredictable, wild animals. Jaguars. A fucking _lion_.” 

“Lilith is toothless.” 

“But she’s still a lion, Sam! This is not the place to be trying out your free loving hippie crap.” 

Sam shook his head, smiling despite his frown. “You are so establishment it hurts to be around you sometimes, you know that?” 

“I’m serious, Sam. You better be careful with this. These are killers, and they’re not to be trusted.” He flicked his eyes over to the poster on the wall; a shaft of sunlight highlighted the gold streak of Mary Winchester’s hair. “Remember what happened to Mom.”

“Dean.” Sam looked like he wanted to say something else for a moment but instead sighed and deflated onto one of the benches, the dishes from his breakfast that morning rattling together. When he looked up at Dean his eyes were puppy dog big. (Dean’d never been able to resist that and Sam knew it, the little cheater.) “This act is something that could save the circus, Dean. There’s nothing you can say to convince me otherwise. I’m going to do it with or without your approval… but I’d like it to be with.”

Dean mulled that over for awhile, remembering Sammy at six and how the stubborn little shit would sulk for hours if he didn’t get his way. Not much had changed over the last twenty years; Dean knew his brother well enough to recognize when he’d dug his heels in. “For the record, I am not okay with this. You hiding crap like this from me makes me nervous. But…” Dean rubbed at the back of his neck, trying to relieve some of the tension. “If you wanna play in a cage all day who am I to stop you?”

Sam smiled and tossed a final sock into the bin without looking – two points, good for him. It reminded Dean of another discussion he’d been meaning to have. “This sudden interest in changing acts wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain animal trainer would it?”

Sam groaned, the sound of put-upon younger siblings everywhere. “Dean, we just finished one argument, can’t we go five minutes without starting another one?”

“I’m not arguing anything. I’m just saying, as your wiser, older sibling I’m gonna play the experience card and tell you to keep your nose clean on this one. Trust me: that girl is nothing but trouble. Did you know she got kicked out of three circuses before this one? And Hans ‘mysteriously’ leaving after she joined up? That bitch is fishier than a hippo’s breath.” 

“God, I can’t believe you sometimes! Do you actually listen to the words coming out of your mouth? Your patriarchy can be so offensive.” And two points for Dean on the Annoyed Sam Scale – bonus points for use of Stanford vocabulary. He was officially ahead in the competition again. “Those are just rumors okay? Ruby explained everything. Besides, she’s not the reason I’m doing this.”

“Right, you’re doing this to save the show and protect our way of life for future generations.” Dean slid into the opposite bench, eyeing his brother. “But you are fucking her, isn’t that right?” 

Sam’s jaw clenched, but he looked out the side window instead of at Dean. _Bingo_. 

Dean shook his head and got up to do the dishes. “Uh huh. Wear a rubber, man, you don’t want to catch cat scratch fever. And expect a lot of pussy jokes in your future, that’s all I’m saying.”

* * *

+++

The devil arrived in an honest to god boxcar. It was retrofitted with heavy tires and a truck attachment, but it was a boxcar all the same.

Just the sight of the ugly thing parked in the yard was enough to conjure up memories of being rocked to sleep surrounded by the smell of old wood and coal dust. Dean had spent the beginning of his life in a boxcar, the _clickety clack_ of the railway and his mother’s lilting voice the only lullabies he needed. He understood why most outfits switched over to the highway – the mother roads made those little American hamlets so much more accessible – but there was something appealing about a circus train eating up the miles across the country, in town one morning and out the next. 

“I haven’t seen one of these in years. It was your first time in the ring, wasn’t it, Sam? That summer we hooked up with the Russian circus and Dad would ride horseback and shoot targets from our hands.” Sam’s first show and he hadn’t been nervous, not of the crowds or the horses or even the guns. Dad had been so proud he’d made a special trip into town for ice cream to celebrate.

“I don’t remember that.”

“Cutest thing I ever saw. You were so tiny back then.”

Ruby smirked and leaned her weight against Sam’s hip. “Must have been a long time ago, then.”

Eugh. He really didn’t like that girl.

Bobby _humphed_ and tugged on the brim of his cap, obviously in silent agreement with Dean. “As interesting as this trip down memory lane has been, why don’t we do what we came here to and open the damn thing.”

Right. The boxcar was old and rusty, but the walls were relatively sturdy and the locks didn’t give way when Dean rattled the door. The noise that rumbled from inside as the car rocked back and forth was disturbingly loud – the eerie warning of large predator.

“Open it.” The teasing was gone from Ruby’s voice now, leaving her staring at the car like it was the last hint of salvation to a dying man. (All right, so he could sort of see what Sam saw in her but there was still the serious _annoying_ factor to deal with.) Sam scrambled to obey but Dean went a little slower on principle. They undid the locks on the sides to discover the entire front panel lifted up to form a sky board, likely in homage to the wooden circus wagons of yore. Dean anchored his side carefully using the long pole hanging from the top and leaned in to have a look, curious to see what Carver Circadia’s distant owner had procured for them this time –

\- and damn near got his head swiped off for his trouble. A booming roar and thick claws inches from his face were all Dean needed to see before he fell onto his ass in the dirt. It took a moment for his heart to quiet enough that he could make out Sam’s laughter over its frantic beating. _Son of a bitch._

Bobby addressed the matter with his usual sangfroid. “Idjit. Don’t you know better than to stick your head between the bars of a lion’s cage?”

No way in hell was that thing a lion. That paw had been as big as Dean’s entire _head_. The cat roared again, drawing Dean’s attention away from the heat of his cheeks. The animal was massive, twice as large as any of the other cats already in the show. Nine feet long if it was an inch, with pale striped fur along its haunches and back and darker spots along its face. Its eyes were the yellow-gold of a night predator and it stared at Dean like it was wondering what he tasted like.

The panel they’d uncovered had a painting of the beast in faded, stylized glory. _LUCIFER_ , it declared. _The liger - one of a kind devil cat! Half lion, half tiger, all fury!_

“Liger?“

“ _Lucifer?_ ” Good to know Sam was just as unsure as Dean on this one.

Ruby slunk forward, tugging on Sam’s long hair at the nape of his neck. He grimaced, or maybe leered, it was hard to tell. “That’s right, Samson. You and me are going biblical. Or haven’t you noticed all the other cats have religious names, too?” She stepped a little closer to the cage, eyes glazing over with possessive greed. 

Dean finally gathered his wits enough to shake the dirt off his jeans. “I’m sorry, but what the hell is a liger? And why do we have one in a boxcar?”

“Just what the sign says, handsome. Half lion, half tiger. This is what happens when you don’t lock the cages at night. And I’d imagine he’s in a boxcar because that’s the only place he’d fit.”

The cat – Lucifer? – roared again and this time the sound tapered off into a moan that caused the hair on the back of Dean’s neck to rise. It started pacing the bars, huffing as it went. Oh, hell no.

“Sam, there is no way you’re getting in a ring with that thing. It must weight three hundred pounds!”

Ruby grinned. “Three seventy-five.” 

“Not helping your case here, lady. Sam, that thing’s a monster. It damn near took my head off!”

“You’d be vicious, too, if you were kept locked in a cage all day.” Ruby made to step up to the bars of the cage but Sam grabbed onto her elbow and tugged her back.

“Maybe Dean’s right on this one, Ruby. Give it some time to calm down from the move first.”

She snorted, lip curling into a smirk. “Sam, trust me. I know what I’m doing.” She lifted the flap of the bag at her side and lifted out a cut of meat as thick as Dean’s thigh, tossing it carefully between the bars of the boxcar. Lucifer pounced with an angry snarl, devouring the chop within minutes and gnawing at the bone. When it’d even chewed _that_ to slivers, it licked its chops and cautiously sniffed at the humans. Then – and Dean rubbed his eyes to be sure he wasn’t seeing things – it started to rub its massive side against the bars, actually _purring_ like the world’s largest demonic house cat.

Ruby grinned and shifted her weight away from Sam, leaning on the bars of the cage. She pressed her palms and cheek against Lucifer’s fur ( _oh, that’s just not right_ ) and the big cat butted against her for another rub. “He’s beautiful,” she breathed.

Dean was pretty sure his mouth was hanging open. Sam was smirking, in that _I know everything_ way of his. He bumped Dean’s shoulder, arms crossed over his chest. “Yeah, I think we can handle it from here. Thanks for the vote of confidence earlier, though.” 

Christ. He needed a drink.

* * *

The Angels showed up just a few days after Lucifer, which Dean took as a sign about how fucked up his life had gotten.

He hadn’t really spoken to Sam since unloading the liger. He and Ruby’d been granted complete access to the big top in order to “break in” the new addition, see what tricks he knew or was capable of learning. In the five minutes between slamming through the door and crashing in his bunk Sam swore that everything was fine and going as expected, though Dean would believe it when he saw it.

So, Sam was off playing with his pussy (Dean would never get tired of that joke) and Dean was repainting the outer shell of the Wall, brightening up what the sun had bleached the season before. Well, technically he’d finished that a half hour ago and was enjoying a cold one in the weak spring sun, but it wasn’t like anyone would notice if he slacked off awhile.

Although, apparently someone had noticed. His first clue that the new act had arrived was when a shadow fell over him. Shading his eyes against the light Dean could see it was a man, standing far too straight and far too close for comfort. His crisply rumpled exterior stood out like a sore thumb around the lot, though that didn’t necessarily mean anything. It was entirely possible someone from the home office had snuck in to observe the training for the new season. Dean hastily swallowed his beer and tucked the bottle behind his hip – wouldn’t do for the high muckety-mucks to see him imbibing on the job.

The man continued to stare at him, expression empty and still. Seriously, the guy was starting to give Dean the creeps. 

“Uh. Can I help you, man?”

The stranger blinked and took a deep breath, eyes settling into something determined. His voice was far deeper than Dean had been expecting from that tax-accountant body, raspy and resonating, sounding almost painfully in need of water. 

“Hello, Dean.” 

And apparently he knew Dean’s name. Right. Because that wasn’t creepy as hell. 

He frowned at Dean’s lack of reaction, shifting his feet slightly. “Do you – How are you?”

“Fine.” Dean drug the word out, hoping for a little help from on high. Just when it seemed like he’d be stuck in limbo with this weird ass stalker Bobby rounded the corner, two men following close behind. One of the men was talking a mile a minute, asking questions he didn’t seem to expect answers to. The other looked like he smelled something really offensive.

“There you are!” Bobby was smiling with all his teeth showing through the beard. Dean was suddenly afraid for his life. “Dean, these are the Flying Angels, otherwise known as the Novak brothers. This is Raphael and Gabriel. I’m assured their brother Michael will be along directly.” Ah, trouble with the new flyers already. No wonder Bobby was pissed. “I see you’ve already met… uh, Castiel was it? The catcher.”

The man – Castiel, apparently, weird name – lowered his head in a brief nod. 

Bobby tugged on the brim of his hat and moved next to Dean, clapping a meaty hand on his shoulder and turning a bright smile on the Angels. “Dean here is one of my best performers. He’ll give you a tour of the place, hook up your trailers, answer any questions you might have. Won’t you, Dean?”

Oh, _hell no_. “Uh, I’m actually kind of busy right now –“

“Right, you sure look busy.” Bobby used the hand on his shoulder to squeeze Dean in close under his arm, holding him far too tight to be classified as a ‘hug’. He spoke through his smile; Dean could almost hear his teeth grinding together. “Castiel here wandered away from the group before I could so much as say _how do you do_. And I don’t like the looks of these other two, either. Keep ‘em entertained while I track down this Michael or I’ll demote you to stable boy and have you shoveling horse shit the rest of your life.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.” Bobby shook him one more time then backed off, gleefully clapping his hands together. “Well! I’ll leave you folks in Dean’s capable hands. Glad to have you with us!” And then he took off, fast as his legs could carry him.

Dean straightened his vest, yelling at Bobby’s retreating back. “I ain’t paid to show around the First of Mays!” 

Bobby didn’t even slow down. “You ain’t paid to sit on your ass and drink beer, neither. Get going.”

“Whatever.” Dean waited until Bobby rounded the corner to retrieve his bottle and swallow the dregs. The darkest of the Angels (Raphael maybe? Dean hadn’t been paying attention) curled his lip in obvious disgust. Gabriel was looking around with a shit-eating grin, obviously jazzed about being there. Castiel continued to just stare at Dean, waiting. Fucking First of Mays. He hated new circus people. 

Dean chucked the bottle off to the side. He stretched out his shoulder a little before standing, the scar tissue itching from Bobby’s manhandling. “All right, let’s get this over with so Bobby will leave me alone. Welcome to Carver Circadia, the happiest place on earth.”

Castiel looked around, confused. “You don’t look very happy. Neither did the other people we’ve passed along the way.”

The chatty one groaned and hit himself on the forehead. “Ignore my brother, he takes everything far too seriously. He’s a little… well, socially inept is the polite way to put it.”

Castiel glared at Gabriel. “I merely suggested that the show should use a different slogan if its workers aren’t going to perform adequately. It’s false advertising otherwise.”

Dean rolled his eyes. _Christ_. “We’re off the clock, Einstein, even clowns can frown when there’s no people around. Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour.”

* * *

He took the brothers across the backyard in the fastest route possible, pointing out the cookhouse and donnikers, stables and practice ring. Turned out Gabriel – the chatty brother – didn’t expect Dean to respond to his jokes anymore than he’d expected Bobby to. Dean wasn’t exactly disappointed when he disappeared somewhere around clown alley.

He wound up the “tour” at the brothers’ two campers, large and shiny new in the grass. Raphael disappeared inside without a backwards glance but Castiel followed Dean around to the back, listening carefully to his instructions about how to hook up the propane and electric.

Dean brushed his hands as he stood, stomach just beginning to rumble as he saw Ellen hanging the flag up outside the cookhouse. From the smell, today was meatloaf day. He said his goodbyes and walked away, only to hear a second set of footfalls following behind him.

He turned, Castiel still hovering at his shoulder. “Uh, that’s the end of the tour. I’m going to get some lunch. Don’t you wanna stay here and, I don’t know, unpack or something?” 

Castiel looked behind him at the trailers, hoses and wires still mostly unconnected despite Dean’s crash course in trailer maintenance. “If I stay they will make me do it for them. I’d prefer to eat with you and the other kinkers.” 

Dean held up his hands. “Whoa whoa whoa, don’t say that, man. _Kinker_ ’s disrespectful.” 

“I’m sorry, I was told it’s what people in circus acts are called. Did I not get the vocabulary correct? ” 

He was _told_? This guy really was new. “Well yeah, but you don’t call someone that to their face. It’s bad luck. Like telling an actor to break a leg.” 

“Then what do most circus employees call themselves?”

“I dunno. Usually performers. Artists if they’re a douche.” Castiel nodded and frowned, like he was editing his series of mental notes. “Whatever, man. Come on, flag’s up at the cookhouse. We better hurry before all the aba-daba’s gone.”

“I… don’t understand that reference, either.”

“Aba-daba? _Dessert_?” Dean stopped in his tracks, wanting to get things straight once and for all. “I’m sorry, I thought you were a professional trapeze act. How can you be in circus and not know what aba-daba is?”

Castiel frowned, as though Dean had insulted him. “I’ve been performing since I was a child in one capacity or another. But my father thought American circuses were a hotbed of moral ambiguity and sin.”

Dean smirked. “Well, that’s true. Mostly. The good ones, anyway.” 

“We often toured privately, but Father never let us wander far regardless. After he died and Michael began training for his medal there seemed little point in socializing with anyone other than family.”

“So, why are you so interested in _socializing_ now? I doubt Bobby’s paying you _that_ much.”

Castiel went still for a moment, watching the other performers and roustabouts line up outside the cookhouse and settle down with plates heaped high with Ellen’s meatloaf. “I’m curious. I’ve discovered there’s a group of people I’ve lived next to my whole life without seeing. As Stoppard said, the truth is like being ambushed by a grotesque.” 

Dean eyeballed the men lining up. “I admit, the crew isn’t the prettiest bunch but I wouldn’t go so far as to call them _grotesque_.”

“You misunderstand me; I meant no disrespect. I’m merely intrigued at what’s behind the curtain. I was born into this work, but at what point do regular people consider it beneficial to swallow fire or contort their body into unnatural shapes? What type of person makes a living risking their lives?”

Dean smirked, stepping up to join the queue. “I suppose it all depends on what you consider a regular person, Cas.” He tapped Victor on the shoulder, then snuck into line just before him. He grabbed a plate for himself and Castiel before the horse trainer knew anything was amiss. Deftly avoiding Ellen’s swat on the wrist, he winked at her and ducked back out without missing a beat. “My philosophy is that everybody’s running from something and you might as well run away with the circus.”

“Good philosophy.” Castiel accepted his plate with a frown and sniffed at the contents as if the meat might be toxic - which was fucking shit, because Ellen’s meatloaf and mashed potatoes were not to be missed. 

Dean found a likely looking table, far enough from the crowd that no one would bother him. He sat with his back to everyone else, hoping the flyer would take the hint and find somewhere else to sit. 

Of course, Cas ignored that social cue like he had all the others so far. He made himself comfortable on the bench next to Dean, though the other places at the table were all empty. “You know all these people, correct? I’d like to know the caliber of performer I’ll be working with.”

Dean scooted over a couple inches. “Look, I just wanna eat in peace. Besides, I don’t kiss and tell.” 

“Yes, you do.” And right on cue, there was Sam, flopping down onto the bench across from Dean, long legs stretching to the other side of Dean’s feet. Sam hadn’t seen fit to dine with his brother these past two days, so what could possibly be different today? Oh, that’s right. The nerdy limpet attached to Dean’s hip. This was going to be a long meal.

Sam stirred butter into his mountain of potatoes (did that boy have a hollow leg?) and tucked in. It seemed that even four semesters at Stanford hadn’t knocked the road manners out of him; he certainly had no trouble talking with his mouth full. At least Dean _knew_ it was crappy etiquette, even if he didn’t give a shit. “Besides, we expand ourselves by sharing with other people. An army may run on its stomach but a circus runs on gossip.” Sam smiled, sneaky hand creeping towards Dean’s bread. 

Dean sighed, whacked Sam a good one and gave up all hope of enjoying the deliciousness in peace. “Sam this is Cas, Cas this is my hippy brother Sam.”

Sam winced, shaking the sting out of his wrist. “Sorry if my brother’s offended you in any way, he’s just repressed under centuries of a testosterone-driven hierarchy. Plus, he’s a dick.” 

“I am not! And whatever you said about the first thing, I’m not that either.”

Sam ignored Dean and leaned over the bench to shake Cas’ hand. “It’s Castiel, right? The catcher for the Angels?” Cas tilted his head, curious. “Word gets around fast; I wasn’t lying about circus gossip.” 

“Hello, Sam,” Cas said. “Your brother and I were discussing his philosophy on why people are attracted to the circus. What are your thoughts?”

“Let me guess – the running theory, right? It has some merit, I’ll give him that.” Dean rolled his eyes. If Cas got Sam started on a philosophical debate they’d be there for hours. “We’re a strange group of people with a strange combination of idiosyncrasies and talents, there’s bound to be conflicts between societal norms. It makes sense that people would immerse themselves in something like that to avoid facing their fears.” He nudged Dean with his elbow, earning a glare. What exactly did he mean by that?

Sam went back to his meatloaf. “I suppose we’re all fundamentally damaged people in one way or another. Isaac and Tamara keep a baby blanket in their trailer and Bobby refuses to talk about the wedding ring he wears even though we’ve known him since we were kids. Half the ring crew won’t tell you their last name, let alone their hometown. Plus, we’re always on the move so it’s hard for cops to find us. Although, Victor used to _be_ a cop if you believe the rumors.”

“I see.” Cas looked around at the gathered crew, taking in the assorted weirdness. He took a first bite of his potatoes and hummed in appreciation – fucking right – and started eating in earnest. He swallowed carefully before talking again. “It seems like this is a very masculine show. Why are most of the performers men?”

Dean shrugged. “Just the way it is, I guess. Too much testosterone and you run the risk of trampling over the fine line between great and gay, though. The rubes won’t watch. Take your act for example: four guys in tights grabbing each other in midair? Kinda sketchy. You should find yourselves a chick."

“ _Dean_.” And there was Sam, right on cue, calling him a chauvinist pig and to watch his mouth without actually saying anything. Dean smirked and took another bite of meatloaf.

Cas was quiet for awhile, pushing his food around his plate. "My sister Anna used to travel with us but she left some time ago. I miss her."

Well, that conversation got real depressing, real fast. Sam nudged him again, eyebrows wiggling toward Cas – the signal for _he’s your friend, you deal with it_. Dean wasn’t sure where the hell Sam got that impression but he couldn’t leave Cas floundering in the land of Awkward Silences like that. “Uh. Do you know where she is?”

“Boston, last I heard. She married a doctor.”

Dean smiled, relieved to be back in vaguely familiar territory and further away from the no man’s land of a stranger’s feelings. “That’s great, Cas. At least she’s got someone, you can be happy about that. When Sam left for Stanford he was all alone.”

Cas looked up at that, surprise overtaking the sadness on his face. And, miracle of miracles, Dean’s gigantic baby brother was actually starting to blush. “Yeah, he got a scholarship and everything. Full ride. Always was smarter than the average bear.” Sam dodged the noogie Dean threw his way, muttering _lay off, asshole_ under his breath. “Anyway. To prevent the public from shunning our cavalcade of gaydom, Bobby hires the tent bunnies to spice things up.”

“Tent bunnies?” 

Dean looked around and spotted the group of girls lingering at a table behind Cas. They were chatting and smirking in their direction, most likely laying bets over who’d get to the new guy first. 

“ _Those_ , my dear Castiel, are tent bunnies.”

Cas turned to look, gulped, and swung back around quickly, eyes the size of fifty cent pieces. The girls saw him looking and giggled, the most forward of them blowing kisses Castiel’s way. Dean leaned around him to wink at the bunnies, having the added benefit of breaking the mood entirely and having the bird flicked his way. Very ladylike. Still, been there, done that, got the rash to prove it.

Sam was muttering something sympathetic to Cas over the last of his meatloaf. “Yeah, I know, man. But what are you gonna do? Pretty girls sell tickets.”

Dean left Cas to consider that one while he dug into the pie he’d valiantly been saving until after the ‘real food’. He didn’t know how Ellen found the time to make it, considering everything else she did around the lot, but he was so glad she did. Today’s pie was blueberry. Not quite as fantastic as apple or cherry, but good all the same.

Cas flicked his gaze to Sam briefly before settling on Dean again. He swallowed (mouth no doubt watering at the delicious aba-daba Dean was devouring before him) and blinked a couple times. “You have filling on your chin.”

Dean licked his fork. “Don’t care.” 

Sam laughed. “Don’t interrupt pie-time, Cas, it’s not good for you.” 

Cas shook his head and cleared his throat. “And what about the two of you? What’s the Winchester’s story?”

“Us? Ours is the oldest story in the book, literally. Our parents were circus folk therefore so are we. Seven generations on one side.”

“Surely there’s more to it than that.” Cas’ eyes glittered with the hint of mischief, lips curling. “Everyone is running from something, after all.”

Dean wiped his face and stood, still chewing his final bite of tasty, tasty pie. “Maybe, maybe not. But we’re not telling you about it over a plate in the mess tent, that’s for sure. C’mon, Sam, we got work to do.”

Sam made Bitchface #5 ( _Quit Harshing The Vibe, Man_ ) but shoveled the rest of his food in his mouth and stood anyway. He held a slightly saucy paw out to Castiel and, proving he was the nicer of the two Winchesters, shook his hand goodbye. 

They were a solid ten feet away from the cookhouse when Sam finally caught up to him. “Why do you have to be such an asshole to new people all the time? I like Castiel. Can’t you be nice for once?”

“It ain’t my job to babysit the First of Mays, Sam. Let’s go do something. I don’t want Bobby thinking we don’t pull our weight around here.”

Sam snorted. “Whatever you say, Hershey.”

And he couldn’t let _that_ particular jibe go without proper retaliation. “Sam, I will kill you and feed your body to Lucifer. Seriously.”

* * *

As always, the weeks leading up to the first roll-out were packed with frantic activity, performers and ring crew desperately trying to fit in one more practice, master one more move. Bobby’d secluded himself in the big top, making sure the timing of the show was perfect and that the acts had cohesiveness to them – a tricky feat, considering the wide range of performers. Boss canvasman Rufus was a big help, seeing as he was mostly out of work until the circus actually rolled out of winter quarters.

By virtue of Dean’s brilliance, the Wall of Death was packed and ready to go in record time. He spent his time helping where he could, focusing on the thousand and one little things that needed to be done before the show could get on the road. Most days he practically lived in the machine shop, overhauling the large semi trucks or tweaking equipment just so. 

It was one such afternoon - elbow deep in the guts of the clowns’ tiny car - when the small hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention. The nervous tension creeping across his shoulders meant only one thing – someone was watching him. It was so similar to being out in the bush he found himself gripping his wrench like a club, aiming at his attacker’s head as he turned –

To find Castiel, hands in his pockets and casually staring like he had when Dean first met him. Completely unconcerned that Dean had almost brained him like a Viet Cong guerilla. 

Dean’s heart was gonna burst out of his chest at this rate. “You can’t sneak up on people like that, man! I almost killed you.”

Cas blinked. “I was not aware that I was sneaking. Perhaps your radio is too loud?”

“Whatever. It’s a good way to get yourself hurt.” It was a good thing he took off his knife vest before starting on the motor, otherwise… it didn’t bear thinking on.

He turned back to the tiny ‘car’, trying to put Cas out of his mind and steady his breathing. It was no more than a lawn mower engine, really, so it just needed a cleaning and lube job to be good as new. Still, it was tedious work and not all that exciting. It certainly didn’t merit the attention Cas was giving it, who hadn’t moved from his spot since Dean first noticed him. 

“Uh,” Dean glanced over his shoulder, reaching for a smaller wrench. “Can I help you with something there, Angel?”

Cas apparently took that as an invitation, leaning in to peer closer under the hood. “What are you doing?”

 _Okay, Crazy_. “Fixing a clown car. How about you?”

“Watching you fix a clown car.”

“ _Jesus wept_ , what do you want? Are you high? Is this some elaborate plan to freak me out, ‘cause I gotta tell you, man, it’s working.” Cas tilted his head, eyes a little unfocused. It reminded Dean uncomfortably of an exotic bird show he’d seen once. “I mean… How are you not busy? Everyone else is working their asses off but you have time to sit and stare at me all day.”

“Your brother Sam has reserved the ring at this time. Since Michael’s arrival my brothers and I have done all the work we can outside the big top and I’ve not been given any additional tasks in the meantime.” Jo attempted to show me some of the opening act choreography but… it did not go as well as she hoped. She threw me out.”

Dean couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up out of the anxiety making his chest tight – for an aerialist, Cas didn’t seem to have any rhythm at all. He could just picture lithe little Jo trying to walk him through the motions. There was a confidence in his body, undoubtedly, a relaxation that came from knowing every muscle and how to use it, but Dean knew grace in the air or in the ring didn’t necessarily apply to the dance floor. He himself had two left feet, and Sam? Dean had seen a moose blunder into a make-up tent once that had more elegance.

“She then suggested I earn my keep another way and that if I kept you out of trouble then it would be more than worth it. Is that something you are prone to, causing trouble?"

“It’s been known to happen, yeah.” Jo thought he needed a babysitter, huh? Fuck that. Then again, watching the awkward way Castiel poked around the shop, it was entirely possible that _Dean_ was the sitter in this situation. Or Jo could have been teasing and Cas was too obtuse to realize it. Either way, it wasn’t a situation Dean wanted to be a part of.

While Dean got lost in thought, Cas scratched a fingernail through some of the chipped paint on the side of the car, once-bright flakes falling to the floor. His rough voice had gone quiet, causing Dean’s hands to slow on the bolt he was tightening. “I assume she was poking fun, since you obviously don’t need my assistance here. Still, I would much rather loiter here useless than wait for practice inside a trailer with Gabriel. I had no idea his habits were so,” he shuddered, staring into the distance without seeing anything, “crude.”

The smile that crept up this time felt more natural, the anxiety from earlier disappearing like it had never been there. “I know the feeling. I’ve shared a trailer with Sam all my life, though I’m guessing he’s a lot neater than Gabe. Having an ex-military father will do that, I suppose. But if you wanna talk about crude, there’s nothing quite so bad as being stuck inside a metal tube with Sam once he’s had a couple tacos.”

Cas groaned, wincing in sympathetic pain. “Tell me about it. What does Ellen put in those, mustard gas?”

It felt good to laugh with someone who wasn’t family for a change. Dean thought about what it was like in a new show, with only a brother to talk to. He wondered how it was for Cas, working and living so closely with three older brothers who – from the looks of things – were so drastically different they had nothing in common. Why else would he be seeking out Dean when he had family so close by?

Dean sighed. “You know anything about engines, Cas?” He passed over the wrench when Castiel shook his head. “Well, you’re about to. You may want to roll your sleeves up for this one.” 

They worked on the car until the supper flag went up, slowly reassembling parts until it was working again. It was the best afternoon Dean’d spent sitting quietly in a long time.

* * *

Cas was back the next day and the day after that. For want of anything else to do, Dean let him help with whatever he was working on – mostly fixing the countless lot vehicles and machinery that always seemed to need some kind of attention. When Sam asked him at dinner what he’d been up to all day, Dean was often hard-pressed to remember anything noteworthy happening, yet the catcher continued to show every morning.

Cas was a quick study and an able set of hands at the toolbox, absorbing everything Dean said with the air of an art student at the elbow of a master. It seemed a little ridiculous (no one could be that interested in how a spark plug worked) but as the weeks wore on Dean suspected Cas was just glad to be out of the trailer and away from his family. For his own part, it was nice to have an audience again, someone to take him seriously and to value his opinion. Sam hadn’t needed his help for far too long now.

Dean would talk about almost anything, rambling on about motors and rpm and whatever Bobby was complaining about that day. Sometimes Dean found himself bringing up the most random things, like how the camper seemed smaller since Sam started sleeping over at Ruby's a few nights of the week and shouldn't it be the opposite? Other times he and Cas would work in silence, shoulders bumping as they leaned over some project or other, radio playing quietly in the background. 

Their solitude was interrupted only by breaks for lunch or when Cas would wander away to meet his brothers to practice. He’d return frowning but pleased with himself, hair windswept and muscles loose in the way Dean remembered from his days performing in the ring. On those days he smelled like sawdust and sweat, the combination making Dean’s mouth water and his eyes close. 

Dean was sure it was Pavlovian, nothing funny there or anything. He hadn’t performed in a big top since before getting out of the hospital, but he’d been in one almost every day before that. That was probably why the smell made him feel that way.

If Cas noticed Dean never left the machine shop to practice, he never mentioned it. He mentioned very little, in fact, his damaged voice almost absent from their conversations. Cas seemed content to merely observe, asking few questions about the work Dean was doing. It was actually kind of peaceful having him sit nearby, watching Dean’s hands getting dirty as he fixed what he was able to.

* * *

+++

The nature of the circus was to be transitional, a fleeting dream set up and gone again the next day. After a lifetime spent living on the move, being stationary fit like a bad coat. And as familiar and comfortable as Carver’s winter quarters were, Dean was glad to finally get this show on the road.

It became second nature for circus folk to pack everything up and leave on a moment’s notice, seeing as they never really unpacked in the first place. Sam secured their belongings and hooked up the trailer to their Dad’s old truck while Dean anchored the Indian to the back. Dean trusted the road crew to move the Wall, but not his baby. (Sam never even bothered to _start_ his bike, let alone get it prepped for the upcoming season. A freaking travesty, if you asked Dean.) 

After that, it was all up to Sam’s navigation; everyone would hopefully meet at the same place without being separated by traffic. Generally it wasn’t a problem – the average motorist tended to move out of the way when six semis, three animal trailers, and sixteen campers hauling god-knew-what thundered past. The battered old Ford wasn’t nearly as impressive as the Indian, or shiny as the Airstream, but Dean liked the rumble of it underneath him nonetheless.

Sam fidgeted the entire length of I-29, thoughts no doubt lingering on the boxcar behind them in the caravan and the trailer full of cats behind it. Or perhaps on the woman driving it – fucking Ruby. Dean really didn’t understand what Sam saw in her. Granted, she had a certain _skanky charm_ but that was usually more Dean’s thing than Sam’s. At least, it had before Stanford and the War. Dean hadn’t really seen Sam with _anyone_ since then. Hell, maybe college lowered a guy’s standards. How would Dean know?

Sam seemed to mellow a little once the radio fizzled out into the horror of country-western crap that was Iowa and Dean switched to playing his eight tracks. After a few songs he rested his head against the window and attempted to contort his legs into a position comfortable enough to nap until his turn at the wheel. Dean couldn’t blame him; it didn’t matter where they were going or where they were leaving from but the Winchesters always slept better when they were traveling. (He knew _he_ did, anyway.)

After an uneventful night-drive the caravan made Des Moines in record time and Sam was out of the trailer like a shot the second Dean put the brakes on, running back to settle the cats into their temporary home. One by one the car doors opened, and the backyard quickly became alive with the sounds of the big top being raised and preparations being made for the first show of the season.

Dean sat in the truck for awhile watching Sam and the crew swarm like busy bees, then wandered over to help unload.

* * *

Despite what Sam might have thought, riding the Wall wasn’t exactly easy. There was a rhythm to it, to harnessing his body’s natural spatial awareness and balance and extending it over the bike itself. He had to trust the Indian, trust his repairs of her, and not hesitate when going around. The bike started to stick to the side of the Wall at a mere twenty-six miles an hour but Dean usually cruised at around thirty-five – fast enough to be impressive, safe enough to let go of the handlebars. Falling from that speed from the top or the sides, regardless of how long you practiced or how meticulous you tuned your engine, could cause some serious damage.

There was a reason they called it the Wall of Death, after all.

Since it was self-contained, the Wall didn’t make for very good ring material; unless the wood boards mystically became transparent the audience wouldn’t be able to see any of the stunts from the blue seats. As such, Dean was relegated to the Midway, a flashy lure for rubes to stick around for the main acts.

Truth be told, he didn’t mind so much. People came and went and he didn’t have to pander to any of them. So what if he didn’t get his face on any of the posters; let Sam and the Angels pose for the camera all they wanted. At least Dean smelled like exhaust and sweat at the end of the day, instead of bullshit.

His brother took up such a large amount of space on the Wall around him that Dean was having a hard time compensating now that it was just him treading the boards. The first few revolutions were less than steady, the front wheel going anywhere but straight. But by the time people started trickling in to the raised platform around the edges of the Wall Dean was barely noticing Sam’s absence and had moved on to the opening barrage of tricks in his repertoire.

 _One hand off the handlebar_ , three circuits around the Wall. _Both hands in the air_ , five circuits. _Standing_ , four. _Sideways on the seat, legs horizontal_ , three. And then, Dean’s favorite: a rush of speed at the very edge of the Wall, making the crowd pull back, breath stolen in the wake of the wind he created. Topping forty, fifty, faster and faster until even he wasn’t sure he’d come out of the spin, the force of it nearly pushing him off his seat. 

God, what a rush. His teeth were cold from the wind bruising his grin. How could cats ever compete to running the Wall?

Slowly, like a lover sliding between cool sheets, he brought the Indian down to a reasonable speed, the roar of the engine calming enough that he could hear clapping and cheers – the lifeblood of the circus. Garth was on target with the new script, reeling them in before they wandered off to the big top.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you have enjoyed the show we’d like to present you with a chance to become part of the act! Take out your billfolds and your wallets, hold that cash high in the air! Flying by at unrecognizable speeds, Winchester will pluck it from your outstretched fingers like raw fruit from the vine. But only if you are brave enough to lean over the Wall itself.” 

And there they were, right on cue, a few tentative hands peeking over the side of the Wall, clutching at the bills like they were going to bite them. Dean picked a likely rube first (woman, young, surrounded by friends) and drove right up, winking and oozing the charm Winchesters were famous for. She giggled and screeched, friends echoing her so loud Cas could probably hear it from his perch at the top of the trapeze. After that everyone wanted in on the act and Dean was more than willing to oblige, going so far as to steal a guy’s hat right off his head and wearing it around the ring a couple rounds before throwing it back with one hand and grabbing his cash with the other.

It was only after most of the crowd had dispersed and Dean had started slowing enough to stop at the bottom that he noticed Sam lurking above the edges of the Wall, loitering next to the crane that would lift the Indian out of the pit once they were ready to move onto the next stop.

Sam, as always a bastion of self restraint, waited until Dean had come to a full and complete stop before yelling down. “Asking for tips, huh? Isn’t that a little cheap?” 

Dean laughed, sneaking a sip from his flask before answering. “Cheap hell, I just made twenty bucks. Besides, I had to come up with something now that you’re not around. Don’t you have kittens to groom or something?” 

Sam lowered the rope ladder before Garth could get to it from the small platform he barked from. “Ruby’s getting them ready. Thought I’d swing by and see how you were doing before the show started.”

Dean let the ladder fall beside him and stared up at his brother, a little peeved. “Doing fine. No need to worry your hairy little head, Samson. You should go back to your Delilah.”

By the time he climbed to the top, Sam was fully into Bitchface #2, complete with clenched jaw and pursed lips. Dean shuffled through the cash he’d stuffed into his vest pocket, couldn’t help a laugh at what he found there. “Besides, cheap sometimes has its perks.” He held up the dollar, phone number penciled in on the edge. The _a_ in _Tammy_ was a little heart. 

Sam snorted and walked away, shaking his head.

* * *

There was a lot-wide party that night, with tents and chairs piled up between the trailers to make a ramshackle happy little village. Everyone was abuzz with the success of opening night, though Dean himself hadn’t seen any of the show. He had heard the crowd cheering from where he was checking the Indian’s tire pressure next to the Wall, though, and they certainly seemed revved up during his second round of stunts, catching the leftover townies as they left the big top.

He hung around the after party long enough to snatch a few plates of food, smack a few asses in congratulations, and see Sam fully ensconced in a discussion with Rufus, limbs happily tangled around Ruby’s and a crowd of admiring stalkers hanging on his every word. Without thinking too much about it Dean stole a bottle of Bobby’s best whiskey and headed back to the relative quiet of the Airstream.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat on the bench, listening to the music of the party ebb and flow from one side of the backyard to the next, but he was well into the bottle by the time someone knocked on the door. Fucking Sam being polite.

Dean leaned over to shout out the open window. “You know the rules, Sam! Is there a sock on the door? Is the trailer a rockin’? Just come in for fuck’s sake.”

“Dean?” The head that peeked inside the door hatch was as unkempt as his brother’s but a distinct shade darker and a good four inches shorter. “Gabriel invited several tent bunnies to spend the evening in our trailer. I was hoping to spend some time here until they fell asleep. May I still come in, even if I’m not Sam?”

Dean laughed at Castiel’s hopeful doe eyes. All that was missing was the wobbly chin and he’d be just like one of those Disney forest critters Sam liked when he was little. Fuck, a man couldn’t turn that away from his door, could he?

“Whatever, make yourself at home. Just don’t expect a tour or anything; the polite Winchester’s still out partying.”

Cas stepped fully into the trailer, even wiping his feet on the damn mat. “Thank you. I think I can find my way around.”

Good. Dean sprawled back onto the bench seat, leaving Cas to prowl around the trailer like a cat investigating its new quarters. He took a sip from the bottle, thought about how the trailer must look to Castiel. It was a mess, truth be told, bottles and metal everywhere, car parts and god knew what else. And he and Sam weren’t necessarily big fans of laundry.

“Hey, you want a drink? We’ve got glasses around here somewhere. Top cabinet, I think.”

“No thank you. Whiskey bothers my throat. I had some wine earlier at the party.” Cas didn’t look up from his examination of the books shelved above Sam’s bed, running long fingers slowly over the spines. “I was surprised to see your light on, actually. I would have expected you to be with the others.”

Dean snorted and sloshed what was left inside the bottle. “Fuck them. I got everything I need right here.” He slouched further into the dining bench, trying to find a spot that wouldn’t make his ass go numb. The couch would have been more comfortable, or even his bunk, but he couldn’t actually feel his legs anymore. 

“Is this your family?”

He turned a little to see what caught Cas’ attention, though he had to blink a couple times to see it properly; he’d been staring at Sam’s empty bunk long enough for his eyes to go dry. Cas was standing before the poster hanging above Dean’s bed, the bright colors and glossy print loud against the wood interior of the Airstream. 

Dean sighed, rubbing his lips. “Yep. The Family Winchester. Best western act in the country.” He shrugged. “That sort of thing was popular back then.”

Cas leaned in closer, squinting at the poster, taking in the details. Dean might have taken offense at the invasion of something so personal, but the idea of a farsighted flyer was too ironically hilarious to interrupt. Ironic. _See, Sam?_ He knew some smart words, too.

“Is this you?” One of those elegant fingers was pointing to – Dean squinted himself – a small blonde boy, smiling wide as his daddy threw knives at him. 

“Oh yeah, I was a regular hellion back then. Still am.”

“You were how old?”

“That would be four. Not good for much more than a little trick riding and holding targets at that point, but everybody made a big deal about it. Youngest person on the payroll, that’s for sure.”

“The Campbell Brothers Circus. I have heard of them.”

“Yeah. Mom’s a Campbell, originally. We toured with them until the accident.”

Cas finally looked up from the poster. “Accident?”

Dean fiddled with one of the knife hilts peeking out of his vest. “Mom got trampled by horses in ’53.”

Cas’s shoulders sank, eyebrows forming a perfect arch of sorrow. “I am sorry for your loss, Dean.” He reached out, brushing a finger over Mary’s painted yellow hair. “She was beautiful.”

“Yeah, she was.” He’d had the poster up by his bed since he was a kid, had put it up first thing when they took over the trailer from Bobby – the manager had been holding on to a trunk of his stuff while he was in ‘Nam. He’d lie there sometimes and stare at the too large smiles and colorful costumes, and he’d wonder how things would be different if that night had never happened. If his mother hadn’t fallen. She was such a large part of their lives after the accident, her death what drove their father to constantly improve (and constantly move) but they’d never talked about her. 

Dean used to lay awake for hours as a kid, trying to remember as much about his mother as he could – her laugh, the feel of her arms holding him up, the way her neck would smell like apples if she’d been baking. The happy memories were always much harder to hold onto than the others, but then again, watching your mom die in the ring wasn’t something a four year old forgot easily. Hell, Dean was willing to bet that wasn’t something _anyone_ forgot easily.

“You have her eyes.”

“Nobody has her eyes, Cas, they’re little specs of green ink. Nobody knows what she really looked like anymore.” And wasn’t that a bitch? Dean could recall with perfect clarity how the sawdust matted with the blood in her hair when she fell, how her eyes glazed over as the life left them, but he couldn’t remember what color they were when his dad closed them that night.

Son of a bitch. Dean rubbed his eyes and took a deep gulp of whiskey. It didn’t even burn going down any more.

When he put the bottle down he noticed Cas had relocated to the opposite bench, reclining stiffly but gracefully against the closed window. The bulb glowing outside the trailer cast his eyes in shadow but made his cheekbones glow. Almost like a halo.

Dean slumped. Stupid Angel, being all pretty and confusing in the light. With the bottle mostly empty Dean had to think of something else to keep his mouth busy. Like talking, talking was good. Just think of something that _wasn’t Cas_. 

He started picking at the countertop with the sharp end of the throwing knife, sloppily carving his initials. Sam would fuss when he saw it in the morning. _If_ he saw it in the morning, the little jerk. “Sam was just a baby when Mom died. That’s why he’s not on the poster; too young to be in the act. I don’t think he remembers her anymore, but he’s never said. He never really wanted this life, you know. Used to complain constantly about being on the road with Dad. Then one day he up and quit, bags packed and on a train to Stanford in no time flat. It was hard, being without him. He came back for Dad’s funeral but I never really got the chance to talk to him until after the war and by then he’d already signed up with the Circadia.” 

“And you never asked him why he gave up school and returned to the circus?”

Dean sighed, rubbed his eyes some more. “I know why. He thought I was dead. Was out on a mission and got separated from my escort when Charlie boxed us in. Wound up in an Australian hospital of all places. Took awhile for things to settle down after I woke up and by then the letter’d gone out. Guess he must’ve flipped, gone back to what he was familiar with or something. S’what I woulda done.” Cas had gone still next to him, a being made of light and shadow and silence. “It’s funny. I don’t usually talk about this stuff with people.”

“Not even Sam?”

“Especially not Sam.” 

Things were quiet for awhile, the sounds of the party finally fading into the distance. They’d regret staying out so late when they had to do the matinee show tomorrow morning and then drive to Springfield. Hell, _Dean_ would probably regret drinking so much, but he didn’t care.

He was leaning on one elbow and contemplating how painful sleeping on the bench would be when Cas broke the silence. “Michael mentioned you the other day.” 

“Michael?” It took Dean a minute to figure out who Cas was talking about. “Oh, the brother I haven’t met yet. What’s he have to say for himself?”

“He wondered if you’d ever tried a flying act and what you would do now that your brother had abandoned you and left the Wall.”

“ _Abandoned me?_ That’s a little harsh, don’t you think? He hasn’t gone anywhere; he’s just trying something new, that’s all.”

“My apologies - those were his words, not mine. But _do_ you feel abandoned? Is that why you’re drinking tonight?” 

Dean leant the cool bottle against his forehead, closing his eyes. “I don’t know. _He_ says it’s the other way around. That I’m wasting my _natural talent_ , whatever the hell that is.” He squinted across the table. “What d’you think, Cas?” 

“Me?” For a moment Cas looked surprised anyone would ask his opinion, let alone Dean. What kind of brothers did this guy have, anyway? “I…I think you should do whatever you are passionate about. If you don’t want to give up the Wall then don’t. Just work around Sam’s absence. You did well today, everyone said so.”

“Nobody cares what I do on the Wall, man. Could ride round naked ‘n draw more people. S’just…” Dean’s cheek on the table probably made him hard to understand but his head was simply too heavy to hold up anymore. “No act without Sam. Not meant to be solo.” He ran a finger through a bit of moisture on the table, spreading it over the tiny _w_. “Family Winchester, Cas. An’ he’s the only family I got left.”

There was movement in front and around him and a sudden weight on his shoulders. It was warm and soft. “Cas. I ever mention you look familiar? Like I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

An even heavier weight on his shoulder, just to the left of the scar. He distantly realized Cas was tucking him in. “Go to sleep, Dean. I’ll wait to ask you why you’d hang a sock on the door until tomorrow.”

Dean smiled and decided to follow his advice.

* * *

+++

Time passed quickly, as it often did when they were on the road. Dean tried his best to forget his late night conversation with Castiel, who did in fact ask about the sock thing. Sam and Dean fell into the rhythm of travel – drive, sleep, perform, repeat – until muscle memory kicked in and Dean hardly remembered which town they were in let alone how long it took them to get there or what they did when they arrived. It was almost peaceful, not having to think about anything for a little while.

Things were… well, not fantastic, but not completely horrible, either. More often than not the show went on to a half-empty house, the performers pushing themselves over and over again to bring attention to their acts, hoping word of mouth would spread to the next town before their arrival. There were several late night phone calls from the home office, though Bobby never told anyone what Carver had to say. He’d taken to arguing with Rufus over the smallest things (Dean started calling them ‘the old marrieds’ behind their backs) and putting everyone through their paces triple time.

Almost every night there was a gathering between the trailers. Sometimes it was a party with alcohol and food but most of the time it was just groups of friends trying to relax. Bobby encouraged it, so long as everyone got enough sleep; an anxious performer was more likely to make mistakes and become a dead performer.

Sam spent more and more time with Ruby and the cats. Dean spent more time drinking alone. Which was so pathetic he didn’t even bother thinking about it.

One night tensions were running particularly high – rain had kept the crowd away in what would have otherwise been a large draw city – and the road crew decided to crack open a couple bottle of freshly brewed hooch. Dean had not been invited; he only found out about the party when he ventured out for a snack from the pie car and someone wolf whistled at him. This wouldn’t have been an unwelcome or uncommon occurrence except for the fact that that someone had been _Ruby_. 

“Hey, baby, where you going?” She was leaning against the side of a trailer, bottle hanging limply between her fingers. There was just enough light to see the glimmer of mischief in her eye and the flicker of a lighter being passed behind her. The air reeked and Dean suspected Ash had brought out the good stuff.

He shook his head and kept walking, on the lookout for treacherous footing in the uneven field they’d camped in for the weekend. “Lady, not for a million dollars. God knows what I’d catch.”

“Aw, don’t be like that, Hershey. I thought we girls had to stick together?” 

Dean stopped, the muscles in his back and legs locking up tight. He couldn’t have heard her correctly.

Ruby rubbed her back against the wall behind her, sinuous and dangerous like one of the cats she trained. “Oh, that’s right. You were only half a girl. My mistake.” Victor sputtered laughter and nudged Garth’s shoulder, damn near sending them both to the ground.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His jaw was clenched so hard he was surprised she could understand him through it. 

“I think you know _exactly_ what I’m talking about, he-she. Your brother and I were talking about it just the other day. Me and you should spent some more time together, Dean, become real gal pals. We could braid each other’s hair and share makeup secrets. I have _half_ a tube of lipstick that would look perfect on those cocksucking lips of yours.”

“Dean!” Surrounded by large, sweaty men as she was, Dean didn’t notice Sam with Ruby until he tumbled away from the group and grabbed him by the shoulder, halting his lunge forward and his hand’s creep toward the knife pocket of his vest. “Dean, man, calm down.”

“Oh, I am calm. I’m gonna _calmly_ stab this bitch.”

She laughed at him – _laughed_ – and pouted her dark lips. “Ooh, sticks and stones. Someone’s wearing her big girl panties today.”

“Ruby, shut up!” Beneath the wave of Sam’s bangs Dean could just barely make out the high spots of color on his cheeks. “Sorry man, we’ve been drinking a little. She doesn’t know what she’s sayin’.”

Dean shook off his brother’s hold, leaning in to whisper fiercely. “She knows a hell of a lot more than she should. What the fuck, man? You told her about _that_?” He glanced over Sam’s massive shoulder to the snickering roadies forming ranks around Ruby. “What - does everybody know? Fuck, Sam, it’ll be all over the lot by breakfast!” 

“Man, you know as well as I do there’s no secrets in a circus. It’s not like it’s something to be ashamed of. It was just an act-“

“Shut up, Sam. God, I can’t believe you! Putting some _bitch_ in front of your brother-” 

“Dean, it’s not like that. Why do you have to blame Ruby for everything? This isn’t about her.”

“No, it’s about you, you asshole! Keep your mouth shut and your pussy as far away from me as possible.” He stomped off as fast as his stiff legs would carry him. He thought for a moment that would be the end of it. By all rights, it _should_ have been the end of it. But Sam wasn’t done yet.

“I’m the asshole, huh? When you’ve got your head shoved so far up your ass you can’t even see straight anymore? What Ruby and I are doing is going to save this show, not some piece of crap bike going around in circles.”

“She is not a piece of crap!” Dean yelled over his shoulder.

Sam yelled right back. “Ruby deserves your respect, motherfucker, and so do I!”

 _Motherfucker?_ Oh, this was personal now. Dean turned in his tracks, oozing as much mockery into his stance as he could. “What, the two of you are going to revolutionize the entire industry? _Please._ You’re just some hack carnie who’s in over his head. Gunther Gebel-Williams, you ain’t, okay, so don’t even try.”

Sam was seething, the muscles in his jaw twitching. His voice was eerily controlled; a tone Dean had never heard before. “You’re right. I’m gonna do something even Gunther wouldn’t do.”

“What, are you gonna make out with them? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure he does that, too, Sam.”

“I’m taking the cage down.”

Dean shook his head; maybe something just flew in his ear. “I’m sorry. Did I just hear you say you’re going to take the _cage_ down? The one thing that separates those cats from the _yokels_?”

“You heard me. We start it tomorrow’s show.”

For a moment, speech was literally impossible and Dean stood there working his jaw like an idiot. Then it was like a dam had ruptured in his brain and all the words came out at once in a yell loud enough to wake the dead. 

“ _Are you out of your mind?_ What the fuck is wrong with you, Sam? I can’t believe this, you’re going to get somebody killed!”

“I can control them, Dean-“

“No, you can’t, Sam, because they’re wild animals! You can’t predict how an animal act will go from one night to the next.”

“Yes, you can. And if you’d actually watch me perform you’d know what I’m talking about!”

Dean prowled up to his brother, getting as far into his personal space as he could. When he spoke it was a snarl. “I will never watch you in the ring with those things, Sam. An animal act killed our mom. Or did you forget that?”

Sam took a deep breath. “The horses didn’t kill Mom, Dean. A shitty manager worked Mom until she got sloppy and exhaustion killed her.” 

A chill shivered Dean’s spine and settled in his chest. He stepped back. “Are you saying it was Mom’s fault? That she deserved it?”

Sam tilted his chin up. “Maybe a little, yeah. Everybody makes mistakes.”

How could he think — what was he _thinking_? “Not Mom. You weren’t there, Sam. You don’t know.”

“And you do? You were four years old when we lost her, Dean.”

He flinched - couldn’t help it – and swallowed around the lump in his throat. “I don’t want to talk about Mom, Sam.”

“You never do, Dean. Neither did Dad. He just drove himself crazy trying to figure out where things went wrong.” Sam reclaimed the foot of space between them, snarling in Dean’s face. “You’re just like him. You’ve lost all perspective on your life. You’re so busy living in the past you can’t accept that _I’m_ living in the future. That I can save us.”

Sam stared at him while Dean clenched his teeth so hard he felt a molar shift. His eyes flashed with something Dean didn’t recognize and he lowered his chin. Dean had never noticed how vicious Sam’s smile could be. “Bobby was right; you have lost your nerve. The old Dean would have hit me by now. You’re too weak to do anything but crawl into a bottle and give up. Just like Dad.”

Sam may have anticipated the swing when it came but the punch still knocked him back a step or two. He countered with a left that Dean blocked with his forearm but surprised him with a full-body tackle. They rolled in the dirt, kicking and punching until Dean felt Sam’s weight lifted off him by Roy and Walt ( _fuck_ they’d been watching the _whole time_ ) and his own body yanked up to standing. Sam stalked away with Ruby, who was - remarkably - silent. 

Dean spit blood after him and went in the other direction. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes on the way out, but a familiar figure separated from the crowd as he passed. Cas came toward him, hand raising halfway to Dean’s shoulder but dropping at the look Dean threw his way. 

He wound up sleeping in the cookhouse that night, curled on one of the uncomfortable picnic tables with a half empty bottle of Jack for a pillow. By the time he returned to the Airstream for load-out the next morning Sam had already removed every book, sweatshirt, and dirty sock that he owned. Dean said fuck it and drank the other half of the bottle.

* * *

By the time they parked in some pissant town near the Ohio River Dean was a little more than tipsy and about halfway to smashed. The life of a circus freak was a hard one; there wasn’t time to stop long enough to wet a man’s whistle, so they tended to do their drinking on the run. Dean was very good at multitasking.

He took a final swig from the (sadly empty) bottle and went out to supervise the crew setting up the Wall, though he must‘ve been sitting in the truck for longer than he’d planned because Garth was already lowering the Indian into the pit when he arrived. There was even a group of lookieloo civilians loitering around the edges of the lot; Dean hated the early arrivals. All eyes, no lettuce. Fuckers came out hoping for a free show or a glimpse of something sweet while the circus folk sweated and unloaded their gear. Well, fuck ‘em.

He chucked the bottle their way and slid a leg over the side of the Wall, feeling around with his foot for the ladder rungs. Somebody – Garth? When did he get quiet enough to sneak up on Dean? – put a hand on his shoulder, trying to keep him from slipping.

“You don’t look so good, man. Maybe you should sit this one out and I’ll run the Wall until -“

Dean flicked the hand off, throwing a finger its way to add insult to injury. “You ain’t touchin’ my baby, Garth, so stop asking. Now go do your damn job and get those fuckin’ townies in here.”

Garth (or whoever) had disappeared from the top platform by the time Dean made it down the ladder (and so what if he skipped the last rung in a less than graceful plunge, nobody cared). Christ, he had to do everything himself these days. He cupped his hands over his mouth and took a deep breath. “HEY, HEY RUBES! YOU FUCKERS WANNA COME SEE A SHOW?” 

A head popped over the side of the Wall, fuzzy and wobbly but probably civilian. “THAT’S RIGHT, COME ON DOWN, LOSERS. YOU LIKE TO WATCH DON’T YA, sonsofbitches.” The last part was mumbled – Dean was pretty sure there were pigtails on that tiny head. Oops. Ah well, she probably heard worse at home.

He straddled the bike and gripped her as tight as he could with his thighs, turning the ignition and letting that speak for him instead. The roar of the Indian’s engine was sweet, sweet music, as always. She almost got away from him when his foot slipped on the gas pedal for a second. He’d have to watch that before he attempted the curve.

The sound of heavy boots tromping his way was almost lost as he gunned the bike, but Bobby’s voice had no trouble projecting into the pit. _“Dean, stop! Garth, close her down!”_ Then he was sliding down the ladder, face redder than Sam’s sunburn that time in Nevada when they were kids. The thought of the little twerp moaning in the desert and covered in green, slimy aloe was enough to make Dean laugh. 

“Get off the bike. I said _get off the damn bike!_ ” 

Dean held up his hands and dismounted, though his foot got stuck halfway over and he fell on his ass in the middle of the Wall, which made him laugh even harder. _Got a case of the giggles, Sammy._

“Jesus, will you look at yourself? Get up.”

Who invited the fun police? Dean had heard Bobby used to be a clown before he was promoted to bossman but you’d never know it by the expression on his face now. That was actually a good point – who had called Bobby? He looked up to find Garth on the platform, where he was ushering out the townies as fast as he could. “You an’ me are done professionally, man! _Fucking narc_.” 

“That _fucking narc_ just saved your ass, idjit. You think this is funny? Some kind of game? Do you have any idea how monumentally stupid this was? You could have _killed yourself_ , Dean, and god knows what other damage you could have done to that crowd of gawkers laughing at the drunken idiot trying to drive.”

“Fuck’s sake, Bobby, what’s the big deal? I’m a little buzzed; it’s not like I don’t ride like this all the time. Hell, I drove all the way here, didn’t I?” Wherever _here_ was.

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that.” Bobby took off his cap and wiped at his forehead with the rag from his back pocket. “Jesus Christ, Dean. If you were anyone else I’d fire your ass so fast your head would spin!”

Dean was starting to get a headache. “Come on, Bobby. I’m fine. It was just a little wobble in the front wheel, tha’s all. It would have evened out by the time I got going.” 

“You’d be dead by then, you idjit! I can’t believe this. You really have lost it, haven’t you?” 

Somewhere in the back of Dean’s mind, echoing past the booze and the pain, he heard his brother’s voice: _Bobby was right_.

Son of a bitch. No fucking way.

He growled, kicking the side of the Wall for lack of a better target. “ _Fucking hypocrite_ , you know that, old man? You drink all the damn time, you think we don’t know? No wonder this circus is dying, got a fucking drunk ass manager screwing it all to hell!”

Bobby took a deep breath through his nose, his scruffy beard whistling around it. He looked like Sam when he ‘centered his chi’, whatever the hell that meant. “I may be an old drunk but I’m still your boss. You’re grounded until I see you sober and meaning it.” 

“Fuck you. You can’t keep me from riding my own bike.”

“That so?” Bobby turned to climb up the ladder ( _showed you, old man_ ) but stopped at the top without climbing over. He rummaged under the platform for a minute before awkwardly climbing back down the ladder with one of the metal bars used for securing the Wall during transport in his grip. He smiled at Dean when he reached the bottom again.

“Bobby, what the hell are you - _Jesus Christ!_ ” The first blow to the Indian landed right on the frame, knocking the whole thing onto its side. The next took the delicate seat clean off and shooting towards Dean. He ducked as it bounced off the wall behind him and Bobby raised his arms for another go; Dean pulled his vest over his head and hid until the clang of metal on metal faded and the only sound in the pit was Bobby’s panting breath.

When he peeked out from under his arm it was to find the bike little more than a crumbled mass of metal that had once been a masterpiece of machinery. The tires were still there but everything leading up to them along one side was dented, scored, or busted. Dean barely recognized her. It felt like his heart was lying there bruised on the boards.

“ _There._ ” The clang of the casing bar hitting the floor barely registered. Bobby sighed, wiped his hands together, and headed back up the ladder. “Now you’ll have something to do with your time off - idle hands and all that. I’ll have Garth scrape this mess off the boards before roll-out tomorrow.”

Dean’s jaw was somewhere on the floor with the broken pieces of his baby. His beautiful, beautiful baby. He looked up at Bobby. “You’re completely insane.”

Bobby pointed a stiff finger at him from the top of the ladder; Dean was fairly certain that had he still been holding the bar, _Dean_ would be the one needing to be repaired. _“Don’t push it.”_

* * *

+++

When Dean woke up the next morning it was to one of the worst hangovers in his drinking career. After carefully dragging his ass out from under the trailer hitch - he couldn’t make it the three feet inside before passing out? - Dean stumbled across the backyard to the pie tent, where he could hopefully find some aspirin and a little hair of the dog.

(Dean knew for a fact that he drank every last drop in the trailer before the debacle at the Wall; fortunately, he was almost out anyway or else he probably would have gone straight to the emergency room… again.)

There weren’t many people walking around the trailers and by the time he got within eyeshot of the backdoor he could see why – there was a show going on, all the performers and rousties scurrying around like ants around the ring doors. Must have been the Sunday matinee, then, judging by the angle of the sun. (Dean knew he hadn’t slept that long, but he could have sworn it was Saturday. Had he lost a day somewhere? He must’ve just been confused.)

Someone shushed loudly next to him, making Dean wish for that aspirin and a punch to the guy’s face. Stillness fell over the chaos, though, and Dean meandered his way over to see what was happening. The crowd parted and there was Sam and Ruby, looking none the worse for wear despite their partying the night before, unloading the cats into position to enter through the ring doors. 

Dean wanted to say something, some snarky comment mean enough to stop Sam in his tracks, anything to let his brother know he was there. But as he opened his mouth Sam crossed himself and closed his eyes, lips moving in prayer. It was one of a thousand superstitions circus folk had to ward off bad luck, like stepping into the ring right foot first or never wearing a red costume. But this one was familiar to Dean. His father had done the same move every day for years, embedding the pattern into his boys and refusing to go onstage without it. 

He’d thought Sam had stopped all that after leaving for his fancy school. Dean himself found little use for it after his return from the war.

A trill of music came from inside the big top and Sam held up a hand, running through the ring doors and into the tent. The cats – unrestrained without leashes or harnesses – followed, Ruby and the colossal Lucifer taking up the rear.

Dean ducked into the gap they left behind, tucking himself behind a fold in the canvas where he could get a view of the ring. Sam swept along the entranceway and leapt right across the small rail into the ring proper, stopping in the center. The three smaller cats ran in behind him, leaping onto drums and roaring for all they were worth. Lucifer came in at a much more subdued pace, jumping to place his massive paws on Sam’s shoulders. 

The audience went wild. Dean damn near shit himself.

Lucifer eventually went to his own (larger) drum and the act continued, Sam and Ruby putting the cats through their paces all without using a whip or training stick. And there was no cage up, of course. Nothing between the audience and the cats’ jaws except his baby brother.

Then Dean noticed something - the ring crew hadn’t actually left the ring. Normally they’d wait in the wings ready to run out with props or change out the setup for the individual acts as quickly as possible but instead they’d arranged themselves around the outer circle, just next to where the blue seats started. They were spread out enough that they weren’t blocking anyone’s view of the ring, but close enough to be a presence. As Dean watched a small boy tried to get up from his seat and a crew member quietly shushed him back down, offering him a free balloon to keep still.

 _I’ll be damned_ , Dean thought. The ring crew was the cage, a living breathing barrier between the cats and the crowd… and no one was the wiser.

“I ain’t dumb, you know.” If anyone asked, Dean would swear that the jump in his heart was due to a swell in the music and had nothing to do with Bobby sneaking up next to him. He hadn’t been out of the jungle _that_ long to lose all of his instincts. 

Bobby nodded toward the big top. “Your brother may have gone over my head when he petitioned Carver to allow this but what happens in the ring is still my call. Every one of those men is equipped with an electric prod, just in case.” 

“Don’t you trust Sam to keep ‘em in line?”

“I trust Sam just fine. It’s the universe that tends to fuck with me on a regular basis.”

Dean snorted and turned his attention back to the act. Sammy was…he was really rather something out there, a storm in sequins and fake fur. He commanded the cats with little more than his presence, sending them through their paces with a simple gesture or a word. Even finicky Lilith jumped through hoops for him, something Dean wouldn’t have believed the lion capable of if he hadn’t seen it for himself. Dean felt a little strange calling his brother breathtaking, but that’s what he was.

Bobby cleared his throat and tugged on the brim of his cap, but didn’t look at Dean when he spoke. “I’m just gonna say this, Dean, so don’t take it personal. You’re one of the best trick knifers in the business, but you ain’t done nothing special since you got back. Hell, even before then. I ain’t sayin’ what you did in the war is excuse or not; I know how it changes a man better than anyone.” Dean remembered hearing that Bobby had served in the second world war, though this was the first time he’d brought it up. Dean had always assumed it was a sore subject for him. “I gave you time when you came out of the hospital to get your shit together, ease your way back into things. But it’s been a year and your shit’s still scattered to the wind.” 

Dean rolled his eyes and turned back to the ring. “Did you come all the way out here to trade war stories or was there a reason for this intervention, old man?”

Bobby sighed, moving until he could see the blue seats over Dean’s shoulder. “Look out at that crowd, Dean. See all those people? When was the last time you looked at their faces during your act? They’re why we do what we do.” 

He gritted his teeth. “You broke my baby.”

“Yeah, and I ain’t sorry for that. I’m telling you now, son – you’re on a very fine line with this. You know I love what you do on the Wall and it’s practically inhuman how well you shoot a gun but people don’t want to see that no more. They want to laugh at some dumbass in grease paint and get a crick in their necks watching people fly. This is the first full house we’ve had since we started this season and it’s all ‘cause of acts like your brothers. Now you ponder that a minute and come up with something worth my time.” 

Bobby stomped off, presumably to do whatever it was he did during a show. Dean stayed to watch the finale of his brother’s act (Lucifer raising his bulk to his hind legs, roaring, and letting Ruby place her head inside his mouth) and ducked behind the canvas when they exited past his hiding spot to thunderous applause. Sam was laughing as he ran through the ring doors, twirling Ruby around and planting a sloppy kiss on her lips before scruffing Lucifer along his back like a pet. Dean ever heard him say “good boy”.

He stayed hidden behind his fold of canvas after Sam and Ruby wandered off to put the cats away and to – no doubt – have nasty congratulatory sex. None of the other performers bothered him, though they had to know he was there. They didn’t even look him in the eye while they waited by the doors for their entrance cues; the cold shoulder at its worst. Dean remembered what Bobby had said and couldn’t blame them: _if you were anyone else I’d fire your ass so fast your head would spin_. He didn’t deserve special treatment any more than they did. He was going to have to earn his way back into their good graces.

Dean hadn’t actually taken the time to watch the show before now, preferring to loiter in the pit until the crowd came back out. He’d forgotten the art of it, the high of fooling the audience into thinking the easy tricks were death-defying and the hard stuff look effortless. Isaac and Tamara did their adagio after Sam’s cat act, and Dean had never seen him throw her higher. Victor and his gang worked the horses natural herding instincts into a goddamn ballet. Even Jo – god, when had Jo gotten her own rola bola act? Last he remembered she was a pup nipping at their heels and helping her mom in the cookhouse. 

Christ, even the clowns made him laugh.

He finally got to see what all the fuss was about when the Flying Angels climbed into the rafters for the finale set, and he craned his neck with the rubes to see them better. Gabe was all over the apparatus, flinging himself gleefully up like it was nothing. Raphael was a dark blur of fierce motion, twisting and turning midair. Michael – at least Dean assumed it was Michael, his features unclear in the distance -  
Michael was the best of them, powering himself into doubles and triples as easily as Dean breathed.

And catching them all, timing his swings to perfectly parallel his brothers, was Cas. The spotlight didn’t follow him but Dean couldn’t take his eyes off the graceful curve of his body. The muscles in his shoulders and arms flowing with strength he wouldn’t have expected just from looking at him.

Dean stayed until the final bow and wandered back to the empty Airstream before the bulk of the audience had left and the performers were finishing up the farewell. He dreamed that night of flying, and falling, and horses, and he could almost hear the _clickety clack_ in the darkness around his bed.

* * *

+++

The week after that was...not pleasant. Jesus, it was so far beyond pleasant it made Danang look like Candyland. His body was wracked with shivers, burning hot and cold with the worst kind of nausea. In a burst of anger he tore the trailer apart, ripping off cabinet doors and smashing the little TV. After the whirlwind wore down he sat, grinding his teeth, rocking like some kind of fucking junkie and staring at Sam's bunk, overturned and empty. The only thing left on the walls was his family’s poster.

And no matter what he did his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, just like when he woke up from the coma. 

He wanted to drink, god knows he did, and to hell with what Bobby or anybody said. But someone saw fit to set a watch outside and every time he tried to chase down a bottle he’d find an Angel perched in his doorway. One Angel in particular; the only time Cas wasn’t skulking nearby was when he was expected in the ring and he had Ellen spot him then. When it was time for the Circadia to take off to new stomping grounds and Dean had no desire to sit behind the wheel for three hours Cas found the keys for the truck among the wreckage and drove them there himself. Dean even caught him sleeping on the patio chair outside the Airstream – strategically placed so Dean would trip over him if he attempted to leave. 

He had no idea what he’d done to deserve such devoted attention but Castiel seemed bound and determined to force Dean through this. The fucker.

Curled up in his Airstream foxhole, he had no choice but to sweat the worst of it out. It was hard to believe he was feeling so low from just a few drinks a day. Or a bottle a day. He supposed he did have a problem, maybe even a _dependence_ , but fuck wasn’t the alternative worse?

After a few days he was able to get out of his own headspace enough to notice the people walking past the curtainless windows, voices calling to each other on the other side of the curved walls. He rediscovered sun, the drinker's enemy. Oh lord, the sun. So bright it hurt to look at, at first. But he came to one morning to discover himself lodged between the toilet and the tiny shower, hand just barely resting in a sunbeam. There were even dust motes floating by, honest to god the most serenely surreal moment of his life. 

That was the day Dean stumbled outside to offer Cas breakfast. Even if all he could stomach was toast and a gallon of weak coffee, the effort tuckered him out enough for a full six hours of sleep. The dreams were even almost bearable.

* * *

If he was going to get paid anytime soon, Dean had to find _something_ to do on the lot. He thought about just driving away into the sunset but _technically_ he was still under contract and once word got out to the other shows he reneged on a deal he’d be particularly unemployable. Plus… well, Sam was still there. And Bobby, despite their arguments. And Cas. And Ellen, Jo, Ash, Victor, everybody who’d been working at Carver Circadia in the year he’d been there.

Bobby was more than happy to give him some work and “suggested” Dean keep an eye on the midway. The gun range, to be specific. On paper it was a brilliant idea to have a sharpshooter the range – maybe do a little trick shooting to get the rubes lining up - but Dean... Dean’s hands were shaking again. 

It was fine at first; he set up the range with the road crew, put out the paper targets, made sure the guns were loaded properly – it was practically muscle memory. The guns themselves weren’t really the problem, it was the sounds they made going off. Once the crowd started pouring in and the guns started blasting he couldn’t help but think about the war, and all the missions they sent him on, and what he did in that hot place. After awhile he just sort of… went away, and tried not to think of anything at all.

“Hey. _Hey._ I’m talking to you, carnie!” 

Dean flinched, almost falling off his stool. A man in an ugly polyester suit was leaning over the mounts on the range, practically yelling in Dean’s face. Ugh. Townies. Dean would have gladly told him to shove it but there was a small boy standing a little ways behind him looking perilously close to tears. Dean couldn’t blame him; if his dad was a dick he’d be crying, too. “I am not a carnie, sir, those are people who work at a crappy carnival. This is a circus, show a little respect.”

The man’s expression clearly said he didn’t give a shit. “I paid good money so my kid could shoot at your _circus_ and these guns don’t even work. I want my money back, you scam artist.”

Dean sighed. Fucking _townies_. “We run a clean show here, sir, perhaps your son just needs to practice shooting some more before he can make the target.” 

“Are you getting smart with me? Fuck you, I’m a paying customer! I tried shooting them myself and the bullet didn’t go anywhere near the target.”

“BB.”

“Excuse me?”

“They’re called BBs, since you’re using a BB gun and not an actual weapon. Bullets only come from things that can kill you.” Dean stood from the wobbly stool and crossed to the shooter’s mounts, taking the shortest route possible by walking on top of the mounts themselves. The guy backed up, maybe only now realizing Dean had a solid fifty pounds on him. 

“Let me take a look.”

He grabbed the gun from the guy’s slack grip and held it up to examine the sights. There wasn’t anything blocking the chamber, and the muzzle was straight as possible with such a low-grade gun. Dean had worked at a few… less than reputable establishments in his time, but he knew Bobby tried to keep the Circadia as family friendly as possible, if for no other reason than to compete with Barnum and Bailey’s squeaky clean image. “Sir, there’s nothing wrong with this gun.”

The man recovered from his shock fast enough to shout. “Bullshit, you fucking hack! You don’t know a gun from a hole in the ground. These are obviously rigged so they don’t shoot straight. I want my money back, _plus_ extra!”

“I don’t know guns from a hole in the ground. _I_ don’t know guns?” The other townies milling about the gun range were watching now, staring at Dean. He didn’t mind being looked at – he knew he was pretty and what his body could do – but there was a difference between being admired and being _watched_. Under the tent he had control over what people saw but here, now, their stares were different, like Dean was at fault because this guy was a jerk. It made his skin crawl and his shoulders curl inward.

He’d been in a freak show once. He never wanted to feel that way again.

Dean snarled, whipping the gun up to shoulder height, picturing the range of targets in his mind. He squeezed off three shots in quick succession without looking, flicking the lever one-handed; by the way the guy paled, Dean knew he’d hit bull’s-eye every time. He cocked the gun again and grit his teeth, leaning right into his personal space. “My last name is Winchester, you _dick_. Still think I don’t know anything about guns?”

“Far out!” Dean stepped back, blinking. The boy had snuck around his father, staring at the target. His eyes were huge, mouth hanging open in delight. He pressed the button to bring the paper closer, holding it close to his face to marvel at the tight pattern over the center dot. From the looks of things, he probably needed glasses. 

The boy looked up at Dean, grinning at him like he was some kind of hero and Dean thought he might be sick.

“All right, show’s over. Everybody go back to whatever the hell you were doing.” He grabbed a wad of cash from his money belt and shoved it at the guy. “I said get out!” 

He chased the townies away (it wasn’t hard; they’d all seen what he’d done and were as easily herded as shocked sheep) and when the range was finally clear he gathered the used target papers and ducked behind the flap that would take him to the back of the range. 

He wasn’t hiding or anything, he just needed a minute to steady his hands, that was all. Take a couple deep breaths to relax, that sort of thing. The lack of booze didn’t help, either. A slug of the hard stuff always helped get him through moments like this.

_It wasn’t even a real gun, Dean. Calm the fuck down._

“Dean?” 

Dean whirled to find Cas coming through the flap. He stopped in the entrance, letting the canvas close behind them. Creating privacy but giving Dean space. Had he seen…

Cas shifted into the light from the single overhead bulb, the expression on his face carefully blank. Yeah, he’d seen. Dean braced himself for questions about how he learned to shoot so well and why he wasn’t doing it in the act - why he was freaking out from firing a goddamn BB gun – but Cas surprised him yet again, offering an easy out if Dean didn’t want to talk about it. "Ash said you wanted to see me?" 

Dean cleared his throat and shuffled the targets into a pile in his hands. "Yeah, I wanted to thank you. These last few days couldn't have been easy, so… thank you."

Cas curled his lip, as close to a smile as Dean had ever seen him get. "You weren't exactly polite most of the time but at least it got me out of the trailer. Gabriel is not the most considerate of roommates. In pleasant weather I'll take your chair over my bed any day."

“That’s,” Dean searched for a word, found himself laughing a little in spite of himself, and settling on the only description he could think of: “ _horrible_. What’s he doing now?”

“Lots of little things. The worst so far has been super-gluing my underwear to the ceiling for no reason. He said he was bored.”

Dean chuckled. He shifted the papers in his hands, finger poking through one of the BB holes. Dead center shot; some lucky kid would have gotten a doll for that one if Dean were paying attention to his job. 

Suddenly, he didn’t want to keep quiet about this anymore. He was sure Cas would understand. "I drink to fall asleep, sometimes, you know? Helps keep the nightmares away. I didn't think it was that big a deal."

Cas paused a moment, then asked, "Do you dream about the war?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes it’s other stuff.” Like bloody sawdust, though Dean tried not to think about that too often. “It’s my own fault, though. What else is the army gonna do with a sharpshooter but make use of him? I should have thought about that when I enlisted.”

“I volunteered, too.”

Dean laughed, surprised. “Well, I guess that makes us the two dumbest kinkers this side of hell. Everybody else ran away to the circus to avoid the draft and here we go do the opposite.”

Cas’s lip quirked; two almost-smiles in one night, a personal record. Dean had a hard time picturing Cas in the jungle, sweating through his crisp uniform. Then again, Vietnam was Vietnam, and what happened there was different than what happened here.

“Does it hurt you so badly? What you did in the war?”

He sighed and dropped the target sheets into the trash, grabbing a few dozen more out of the box. “You guys keep saying I could have killed myself on the Indian. I know people are saying I have a death wish or something. I wasn’t trying to kill myself, okay, so get that out of your head.” Dean could hear Cas take a breath to argue but talked over him before he could dig himself in deeper. “I don’t want to die but I can’t help thinking it would have been better if I never came back from over there, if I’d never woke up in that hospital. You know how they say war is hell? What they don't tell you is what happens to the devils after hell spits ‘em out again." 

"You are not a devil, Dean, regardless of what you've done under orders." 

"And you'd be an expert in that, right _Angel_? How do you know _what I did_?" 

Dean finally felt the weight of those ice-blue eyes shift from the back of his head. "I was not blameless in this war, Dean. There is no such thing as an innocent soldier." 

When Dean dared look behind him it was to find Cas shifted into the darkness again, a deeply guttural voice coming from the void. "My unit specialized in protection and extraction, escorting soldiers from one sortie to another. I saved whom I could but I abandoned others.” 

“Now _that’s_ something I find hard to believe. I can’t see you abandoning anyone, Cas.”

“That’s because you were one of the ones I saved.”

A chill ran its way up Dean’s spine. _Someone just walked over my grave_. “What?”

“I assume you don’t remember because of your head injury. I was unaware that you wouldn’t recognize me until I arrived here, not that we were close enough that you’d care to see me again.” The doctors had told Dean that memory loss was to be expected with the type of head injury he’d received, and it wasn’t uncommon for a period of time to be missing prior to the event. His superiors hadn’t been happy that he couldn’t remember what happened, though.

“I was part of the group assigned to your last mission. We weren’t given any details – we never were – but it was easy to figure out what your intentions were. I know why you were in that compound and who they sent you to kill. I watched your face on the hike there, wondered about what type of person could kill another because their country told them to. We talked a little, on the journey, and you weren’t what I was expecting. You weren’t like the others.” Cas stepped forward, slowly erasing the distance between them. “I saw your eyes after the deed was done. When the building started to collapse I didn’t think, I just… went in after you. Then I gripped you tight and ran. I didn’t want you to die then, I still don’t. I don’t regret saving you, Dean. It was the best thing I’ve ever done.” 

“Don’t say that, Cas. You don’t mean it.” How could he? Cas was a good person, Dean knew that. How could _Dean_ be anything but worthless compared to him?

Cas was right in front of Dean now, eyes burning and stubbornly refusing to look away. “I do mean it, Dean. You deserved to be saved.” 

Dean shuddered again, blinking for what felt like the first time in hours. He tried to gather his thoughts, rubbing at his damp eyes. That was enough touchy feely crap for one night. He threw the target sheets back into the box with one arm and locked the other around Cas’ shoulders. The smile was hard to conjure, but it came all the same. “Come on, man, let’s close this bitch down for the night and find ourselves a party. This is a circus, for fuck's sake. There's bound to be booze around here somewhere.” 

Cas’s shoulders stiffened under Dean’s arm. He had a much more angular Bitchface than Sam ever produced; Dean decided to call this one _I Will Break You If You Try It_. “No alcohol.”

“All right, all right. You fuckin’ teetotaler.” He wiggled his grip enough to loosen Cas’s posture the tiniest bit. “How anyone can come back from Vietnam and _not_ drink is beyond me. You’re some kind of superhero, aren’t you? Abstinence Man, to the rescue! Getting cats out of trees and drunks out of trouble at the speed of sound!”

Cas relaxed completely, leaning against his side, and for the first time the curve of his lip turned into a full-blown honest-to-god smile. His teeth gleamed in the neon light of the midway. Dean kept talking, rambling about anything that came to mind, all to see that smile for a little while longer.

* * *

+++

The next day was – fortunately – a Monday and the crew’s day off. Normally, Dean preferred to sleep in on Mondays but his dreams the night before were bloody and full of fire, so he found himself greeting the dawn. Despite the lack of proper sleep, he felt a little lighter, like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders or like he’d finally put down a box of bricks he’d been carrying for a long time.

He met Cas for breakfast in the cookhouse, who, in a shocking display of social perception, followed Dean’s lead and pretended their talk the night before never happened. Instead he approached the issue of Dean’s continued employment head on, like it was a puzzle they could solve together. 

He began by buttering his toast absently, eyebrows dipping down in thought. “Obviously the gun range isn’t working for you; we’ll just have to tell Bobby to find you something else. Surely there’s some other way for you to earn your keep.”

Dean pushed his hash browns around his plate, scooping up a little bit of ham steak onto his fork. “I dunno, man. I’ll probably just take the pay cut until I get the Indian fixed up and Bobby lets me back on the Wall again. Maybe work odd jobs around the machine shop, help out security, that sort of thing.”

Cas frowned, putting down the toast slice. “You’re a performer, Dean. Can you really see yourself being content to hide in the machine shop again?” Again? That implied Dean had been hiding _before_. “What other skills do you have?”

He decided to let the hiding thing slide, in honor of his remarkable good mood and Ellen’s awesome ham. “I’ve been in the business my whole life, Cas, I’ve done a little of everything. Not all of it’s a marketable skill, you know?”

“What about flying stunts, trapeze and the like?” Cas looked down, pushing his forgotten toast around the plate and brushing crumbs off the table. Dean frowned and tilted his head enough to get back into Cas’s eye line, raising a questioning eyebrow. Cas sighed and gave up on the toast with a humph. “Michael mentioned you again. Several times, in fact. He feels you would be suited for aerial work and would have you in the air.”

Michael. The guy certainly liked to talk about Dean for someone who’d never so much as introduced himself. Dean had yet to even see him aside from when he peeked in on Cas in the ring. “Tell your brother to shove his gold medal up his ass, ‘cause I ain’t going in the air. And if he ever gets the balls to see me himself I’ll tell him to his face.”

He thought he might have overstepped his bounds again, done what Sam was always ragging him about and offended Cas, but instead of getting pissed off he quirked his lips in a half-smile and nodded. Cas, apparently, was not much of a fan of his older brother. The dynamics of that family were all screwed to hell; every other family troupe Dean’d worked with before were as tight as a nun’s ass. Although he supposed everyone had their problems. Look at him and Sam.

Cas finally took a bite, chewing precisely. “You mentioned horseback riding before.”

“I’m gonna pass on that. Besides, the only horses in this outfit belong to Victor and he ain’t letting me anywhere near them.”

“Well, that exhausts my repertoire. How long until the bike is repaired?”

“Maybe a week or so if I get access to the parts I need. Bobby used to be a mechanic in the old life so he knows how to hurt a vehicle.” Dean ate his last mouthful and leaned back, stretching over the back of the bench. 

Cas’ eyes narrowed as they tracked the motion up and down Dean’s chest. “Dean, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Why do you wear your vest all the time? Surely the leather’s too heavy for this heat? And I can’t imagine the knives are comfortable.” 

He ran a hand over his side, feeling the smaller knives kept in the horizontal slits along his ribs. “I dunno. It’s kind of a family heirloom, I guess. Part of my dad’s costume. All the knives are his, actually; I found them in his trunk after he died.” Along with some other things, like his mother’s wedding ring and a birth certificate that didn’t have his or Sam’s names on it, dated seven years after their mother died. 

Dean had no idea who Adam was; it was just another of the dozen or so things he tried not to think about. He’d stashed the knives and ring, burned everything else, and hadn’t mentioned it to Sam.

“And that?” Cas nodded toward the small silver flask half hidden in the inner pocket, just over his heart, visible with the vest unbuttoned and Dean slouching as he was.

Dean grinned. “Welcome home present from Ash. She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

Cas hummed and reached across the table, slipping his hand into Dean’s open vest. Dean jerked, Cas’s warm wrist barely brushing against his t-shirt and the nipple underneath. _Holy shit-_

Then Cas leaned back, tucking the flask into his own shirt pocket, ignoring Dean’s blinking shock. “Close your mouth, you’ll get it back when I can trust you not to use it.” 

Dean huffed a laugh, shaking his head at the audacity. Leave it to Cas to distract him with body heat to get what he wanted. He leaned back on his hands, legs curling around Cas’s under the bench. Cas’s posture was impeccable, as always. 

“Why not use the knives then? In your act?”

He shook his head. “Knife throwing’s a thing of the past, man. Practically a parlor trick. Nobody does that anymore. Besides, if Bobby doesn’t trust me with a motorcycle why the hell would he trust me to throw sharp bits of metal at stuff?”

Cas finished his toast and delicately licked a bit of butter off his fingers. “If no one does it anymore then the audience hasn’t seen it recently. Everything old is new again when brought into a different light.”

Dean swallowed. Cas had a very long tongue. “Very poetic. I may have grown ovaries just listening to it, but poetic all the same. You enjoy that stuff, don’t you, poetry and books and all that bullshit?”

Cas shrugged a shoulder. “There’s often little else to do when your family is always moving from one place to the next. We didn’t go to a proper school so much of what we learned was from books.” 

“Point.” Sam had been just like that, nose shoved in a book all hours of the day. Dean just learned to grift and throw knives. Ah, childhood. Still. “I dunno, man. I suppose we can set up a target and see how it goes. But don’t expect anything impressive.”

“I’ve never seen knife work performed at all, so I’m sure anything you do will be impressive. I’m quite looking forward to it.” He smiled that half-smile again and Dean felt his cheeks burn.

* * *

Days off in the circus were rare and coveted like fine jewels or single malt scotch. There was always something to be done, a new routine to master or equipment to mend. Hell, even laundry and dirty dishes piled up until people could get to them. In good weather most folks just sat around outside, chatting with their friends or simply enjoying being lazy. It was during times like these that Dean didn’t mind the press of other people close by; otherwise it could be hard to relax in their little gypsy world with just a canvas tent between your bedroom and hundreds of strangers.

On the other hand, the downside to having a day off was that there were plenty of people on hand to watch Dean set up the old hunk of wood scavenged from the machine shop as a target board. Within a few minutes a good dozen people were milling about; Ash was even settling into a lawn chair, beer in hand and ready for the show. Dean was pretty sure if it had been anyone but a Winchester setting up a target they wouldn’t have bothered.

He stretched his arms and shoulders, trying to loosen up the scar tissue and bring life back to tired muscles. Dean threw with his right so the scars probably wouldn’t bother him too much, but the trembling in his hands was a concern. It was more of a fine tremor than the full on shake from the days before but even the smallest variation could send a knife careening past its intended target. A shot of whiskey would help, but not with all these people around, and certainly not with Cas watching his every move. Instead he focused on the basics, repeating the lessons his father had taught him, long drilled into his memory. 

“Throwing knives is easy, it’s hitting what you aim at that’s the tricky part.” He paced out the distance between him and the target – seven paces; Sammy was taller and needed eight. He couldn’t remember how far back his Dad had to stand. “Once you figure out which grip works best for you, it’s all about mastering a constant motion, repeating the same throw every time. After awhile, muscle memory kicks in and all you have to do is adjust your aim a little.” He raised his left arm, getting an idea where the target was in relation to his body, checking that his stance was as it should be. “Keep your wrist straight. Never hesitate. Always _follow through_.” He stretched his body, raising his right arm above his head and quickly back down again, letting go when the knife was pointing at the target. It revolved through the air and stuck blade-first, as Dean intended, though several inches away from the large circle he’d painted into the wood grain. 

Ash booed him. Dean flipped him off and picked up another knife from the table next to him, adjusted his grip slightly, and hit the target full on. Exactly where he wanted it to. The group cheered when Dean threw another, and another still, until he had the knives stuck to the board in a wobbly capital C, for Circadia. 

Cas nodded from his perch on Dean’s right. “Nicely done, though I can see your point about people losing interest. While you’re obviously skillful, I doubt an act like that would captivate an entire tent’s attention.”

The performers loitering behind him called out some disparaging remarks about Cas’s mother, though they were grinning while they did it. Bobby’s gruff baritone cut through the heckling. “Put some heart into it, boy!” 

Dean turned to look over his shoulder; he hadn’t even known Bobby was watching. The gaffer nodded from where he’d moved to the front of the group, hat pulled down so his eyes were in shadow. Dean remembered when their little family traveled with Bobby’s circus in the old days and the countless summer months he and Sammy would follow him around the lot, absorbing everything he had to teach them about circus.

 _The key to winning over the crowds_ , he’d said, _was to put your heart into your work. You could be the best there is and nobody will give a shit if there’s no passion behind your performance. The rubes want to do what you do, feel what you feel. And you have to make them feel it._

Something warm churned up from the depths of his body, long buried and half forgotten. He grabbed hold of the feeling, breathing on it like a fire trying to catch light. And then he pushed it into the sly tilt of his mouth, the cocky curve of his neck, the gleam in his eyes. He sent it swirling around his hips and tingling down to the tips of his fingers.

 _I know something you don’t know,_ he thought, _and that’s sexy as hell._

Dean grinned to catcalls from the crowd, the tent bunnies fanning and swooning over themselves. He caressed the smaller knives hidden in his vest before tugging them loose and tossing them from hand to hand, smooth as silk. One by one, until all six were in rotation and Dean couldn’t spare a thought for the girls anymore. He couldn’t think about anything except the rhythm of his heart in his ears and the flow of his hands. Every breath became the gleam of silver in the air until he was flying, as far from the ground as he ever wanted to be, tumbling in a whirl of metal and nasty edges.

For a moment he hung there, serene, separate from his body. Then he gathered himself into a hard knot and pushed himself _away_ , hurling the knives and his thoughts away from him across the distance. If Sam were here, the other half of his act, he’d catch and throw them back, a return as easy as air. But Sam was gone and instead they hit the target dead on, burying themselves deep into the wood.

The wobbly C turned into an even shakier heart, and Dean laughed for the first time in what felt like forever.

His goddamn knees would have given out except he was suddenly being pounded on the back by Victor and had to stiffen or die. The whole gang was there congratulating him, shaking his hand and cheering. It was a small victory, regaining something he hadn’t found necessary in years, but it was one they all understood. 

Ash pressed a beer into his hand, cool and slightly damp against his overheated skin. “All the time I’ve known you and I’ve never seen you throw like that. I wouldn’t have guessed you were so good!”

Dean grinned. “Are you kidding? I can slice a pretty girl’s dress off from ten feet away.” 

Tamara leaned in, brushing a soft kiss against his cheek. “Only from so far? What can you do when she gets closer?” Isaac huffed behind her, pushing against her shoulder. She grinned back at him and leaned against his chest. He kissed the side of her neck and Dean told himself not to be uncomfortable or envious of how they were with each other. 

Bobby worked his way through the crowd, grinning, eyes shining under the brim of his hat. He clamped a paw on Dean’s shoulder and pulled him in close. “Now, _that_ is what I’m talking about, son. Keep it up and we may get you back in the ring, yet.” 

Slowly the crew started trickling away, back to whatever Monday revelries they had planned before the impromptu Winchester knife show, until it was just Dean and Cas and the knives still quivering in their wooden sheath. Cas was sitting quietly next to Dean but he was shifting on the bench, lips parted, eyes slightly glazed, a flush in his cheeks.

Cas looked… Christ, Cas looked _turned on_. And it was a hell of a reminder to Dean that he was more than a little excited, himself. _Fuck_.

“Uh. Well, I guess we found something I’m good at, huh?” He smiled nervously and raised the beer to his mouth, more reflex than anything else.

The look on Cas’s face immediately darkened from _oh my god that is hot_ to _holy crap I’m gonna kill him_. He jumped off the bench, grabbed the bottle before Dean could take more than a sip and proceeded to dump it out onto the ground. He ignored Dean’s protest that it was _only one drink, come on, man_ and tossed the empty bottle into the long grass next to the target. The storm on Cas’s face said he was more than willing to argue the dangers of alcohol but his brow cleared when he turned to look at Dean again, catching him rubbing a hand against the rough skin of his lips. 

Cas breathed out, expression settling to quiet concern. “You’re bleeding.” He pulled a clean handkerchief from his back pocket, tugging Dean’s hand away from his mouth and wrapping it around.

Oh - just a nick on the side of his hand, bleeding sluggishly. Dean hadn’t even noticed it until Cas started applying pressure. It was a small sting but enough to distract him from… _other things_. “You’ll ruin your handkerchief that way. Best to just leave it alone.”

“I can buy another handkerchief. Why are you so unconcerned about your health?”

“Why are you so concerned for it?” Cas frowned, glaring at him. Dean sighed and submitted to the mothering. “You can’t expect to throw knives for a living and not get cut, Cas. There’s more scars than skin on my hands at this point. I didn’t even feel it.” Cas’s palms were rough themselves, catching against Dean’s own with strange friction. He supposed it was to be expected; circus folk always got rougher in places normal people didn’t. “It’s no big deal, man. My dad always used to say a scar was just another type of callus, a place the world rubs you tough. It was practically his motto.” _Embrace the pain, son, work through it. Use it to make you better._

Cas rubbed his thumb over the binding on Dean’s hand. “Your father and my father would have gotten along very well, I think.” 

His lips quirked ruefully and Dean realized exactly how close they were standing. He shifted, their legs rubbing together at the thigh, jeans making a small rasping sound. They were sharing the same air, sawdust tickling the back of Dean’s throat. Cas was holding his _fucking hand_ , stroking his thumb in soothing circles like Dean was an animal needing to be soothed.

Cas’s eyelashes fluttered, his head tilted back –

Dean jerked away sharply, heart pounding in his throat. “Cas, what the hell are you doing?” 

Cas blinked, swallowing. “I… I don’t know. I thought-” 

It was hard to breathe with Cas so close, so Dean pulled himself away from where they were entangled and rubbed his palms on the back pockets of his jeans, shifting his feet in the grass. “You don’t do that. You can’t _do_ that.” 

Cas frowned, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “I’m sorry. I thought you wanted me to.”

“Well, I don’t! Why would I want that? I don’t know what you heard about me on the lot, Cas, but I don’t want _that_.”

Dean backed away, hands rubbing themselves raw on the denim. He couldn’t look at Cas anymore. “I - I better go take care of those knives. Don’t want them to get dull.”

He stumbled in a wide arc around Cas to the target and tugged the knives free, blade tips still just as sharp as ever. By the time he turned around Cas was gone and Dean was alone again.

* * *

+++

That morning in the backyard may have been a kind of breakthrough for his act but Dean knew if he wanted to be good again, truly _good_ , he had a lot of catching up to do. His muscle tone had gone down since his time recuperating in the hospital (after Cas had saved his life, Jesus _fuck_ ) and he’d have to build his shoulders back up if he was going to perform anything long term. It meant fifteen minutes a day at his least favorite activity – pushups – and wearing finger weights most afternoons. An added bonus of all the exercise and focus was that the shakes were almost gone, and he hardly ever craved a drink. (There was nothing he could do about the nightmares; his only hope of sleeping through the night was to exhaust himself by going for a run around the tents, which he hated.)

More important than his physical condition was the lack of accuracy, something that would only improve with time and practice. Bobby was encouraging about Dean’s baby steps and set up a small stage in the middle of the midway where he could practice, juggling in front of the crowds and aiming at a fancy target board.

The Wall of Death was retired (momentarily, Dean swore) and returned to the Circadia’s winter quarters. The Indian – sad and broken as she was – remained in the bed of Dean’s truck until he could spare some time to look her over properly.

To combat his growing caloric intake and rein in his wandering focus, Dean found himself drinking a lot of coffee. And since Dean’s little tantrum had broken his tiny coffeemaker, when Ellen closed down the cookhouse the only fresh coffee available was at the pie car.

It was there Dean stumbled upon Sam for the first time since their fight, loitering on one of the benches next to the car in the few hours between the matinee and the night show. Sam’s nose was buried in a book and Dean would have made fun of him for being so nerdy if it wasn’t an obvious attempt to ignore Gabriel, talking a mile a minute about God knew what.

Dean chuckled. Knowing Sam’s metabolism the two of them were probably after the same snacks. Gabriel seemed the type to ambush you and talk your ear off. 

He ducked behind the car before Sam could see him, pouring himself a cup of coffee - his fifth for the afternoon - and lingered, eavesdropping.

“It’s a completely new concept for a clown act. This trickster clown pops in and out of the other acts and the audience, messing things up, generally being a fantastic agent of chaos and making everything funny. And he keeps harassing this one guy in the blue seats who’s really a plant and the grand finale is this huge aerial tumble where the plant gets pulled into the show. I mean, it’s foolproof if it’s done right. What do you think?”

Sam didn’t look up from his book. “I think if you mess with my act I’ll let Lucifer eat you.” 

Dean smirked, stirring in some milk into his coffee. Sam’s fear of clowns was notorious, if ridiculous. He used to tease him about it all the time; how could someone who grew up in a circus be so nervous around something so silly? 

Gabriel blanched a little. “Well, not every act. Obviously.” He contemplated Sam for a minute, sharp features going sly. “Speaking of acts, I heard your little Delilah got into a bit of a tussle with the king of beasts the other day. Everything okay in the corral?”

“She’s fine. It was just a scratch, no big deal.” 

The spoon clanged back into the bowl with the others and Sam turned toward the noise. Dean stood there, fuming, unable to look at his brother. There was no such thing as ‘no big deal’ when working with animals; Dean knew it and Sam did, too. 

It wasn’t until he was halfway back to the Airstream that he realized he left his coffee on the counter. To hell with it. His hands shook enough these days - he didn’t need the extra caffeine, anyway.

* * *

The devil got loose on a perfectly normal Wednesday afternoon.

In the aftermath, Dean would remember the conversation he overheard and think _I told you so_ with all the viciousness an older brother could have. But in the heat of things he was too terrified to play such childish games, even in his own head.

The circus was going well that day, Dean’s shoulders just a little bit sore after he spent a few hours entertaining the locals by spelling their names on the target board or having the braver ones hold out pieces of paper for him to aim at. He was just closing down for the night when he heard a woman scream and a sudden commotion coming from inside the big top.

Dean was moving before the sound died away, feet propelling him toward the tent like the hounds of hell were on his trail. Screams were never a good sign when people did what they did for a living but it wasn’t until he heard the cries of the townies he passed that he began to realize exactly how bad it could be.

Lucifer had gotten away from Sam. _Fuck._

He changed direction, heading toward the backdoor instead, hoping to cut off the liger’s escape from that angle in case he got past the road crew and their fancy electric prods. If they could keep it contained Sam or Ruby could eventually get it back under control long enough to secure it in the boxcar.

When he arrived at the backdoor it was almost empty, quiet in the middle of the chaos, and Dean thought he could hear… _There_ , a low rumble. Dean rounded the corner, slowly, and his heart stuttered in his chest.

Lucifer’s back was to him, crouched low, stalking the small girl hiding under the bleachers just to the left of the entryway. Sam was blocking its path, hand raised, speaking quietly. For a moment it looked like Lucifer was willing to be soothed - _my brother_ , Dean thought, _the lion tamer_.

Then the cat’s tail twitched and it let out a fearsome yowl that raised the short hairs on the back of Dean’s neck. He saw it gather itself to leap and moved without thinking, muscle memory pulling two of the small knives from his vest and sending them hurling through the air. They hit Lucifer square between the ribs, embedding themselves deep inside flesh. The cat died with a pitiful groan but too late–

Its jaws had already clamped around Sam’s shoulder, claws taking down Dean’s baby brother with the beast. 

Dean was running before the third knife even left his grip, hitting the cat at the base of its massive skull. He was dimly aware of the child’s mother rushing over to gather her daughter into her arms but he was too busy pushing the dead weight of the cat off his brother to care. Sam was conscious, but barely, Lucifer’s teeth leaving a jagged line from his neck down to the side of his collarbone. There was a lot of blood.

He tore at his t-shirt, ripping the bottom half off to form a makeshift bandage, pressing it tight to the wound. His grey shirt quickly became red with the blood soaking around his fingers and Dean pressed harder, putting all his weight behind it, _willing_ the hurt away. Sam cried out and Dean _shh_ ed him, like he had when they were little and Sam had a bad dream. He shouted, begging for help, for someone to get some fucking _help_ , and suddenly Bobby was there, adding his own hands atop Dean’s, saying the ambulance was on its way. Ash brought a blanket, talked to Sam. Tried to keep him awake.

Dean looked up at the sound of sirens, for the first time noticing the crowd of people in a circle around them. The townies stood there watching the spectacle of his brother bleeding out before them like it was just another act, eyes wide and mouths hanging open. Sprinkled among them were the circus folk, crying through their false lashes and whispering hopeful prayers.

The only ones who gave a damn were covered in sequins and makeup, pushing the normal people back to make room for the paramedics and the stretcher that would take Sam away.

* * *

The hospital waiting room was far too bright after the neon of the circus lot. Dean squinted in the fluorescents, stomach cold where the processed air snuck in under his torn shirt. There was blood under his nails and up past his wrists. He felt clogged, numb, like he was the one that left part of himself behind in the dirt.

The doors pinged and Ruby burst in, makeup running down her face and the feathers from her costume sticking out of her coat. Dean tensed – they’d been avoiding each other as much as possible since he and Sam split, mostly because Dean couldn’t stand the little bitch and Ruby had decent self-preservation instincts. Not anymore, apparently. She marched right up to Dean and started hitting him on the shoulders, as feral as any of her cats. “You son of a bitch!” 

“Hey, _hey_!” Dean stood, grabbing at her hands and trying to avoid getting nailed in the face. “It’ll be okay, Ruby! It’s all right. Sam’s with the doctors right now.”

“No, it won’t be okay! He’s dead!” She pulled away roughly, Dean’s short nails leaving red marks on her wrists. She snarled at him through her tears like Lilith on a bender. “You killed him, you _bastard_. He was beautiful and mine and you killed him.” She hit him again, dissolving into sobs. “Do you have any idea what I had to do to get him? Any idea how much he cost? What the fuck am I going to do now?”

“Wait a minute.” Dean’s brain finally caught with a jolt like electric shock. “Are you… are you upset about _Lucifer_?”

Ruby looked at him like he was an idiot. “Of course I’m upset about Lucifer. What, you think I’m worried about _Sam_? Please. Sam’s a great guy but he’s not worth fucking up the act. No, that was his _faggy_ older brother’s fault. What the hell’s wrong with you? Ligers are temperamental, he would have been fine--”

Only one thing was clear through the red haze covering Dean’s vision and that was how badly he wanted to hurt Ruby at that exact moment. He pushed her against the wall, cutting off her tirade with a strangled yelp. He held her tight with his heavier weight pressed against hers. He had three knives left and he placed one – ever so gently – against the curve of her throat.

Dean tilted his head until he could look her in the eye. Smiled. “I killed your cat and I’m glad I did it. I’ve killed people before too, Ruby. Women and children, not just soldiers. Hell, I lost count of the number of souls I popped for God and country. And right now? Nothing would give me greater pleasure than doing the same to you.” 

Her brown eyes were huge and frightened, but her jaw was clenched in defiance. He snarled and pressed harder. “What? No witty comeback? No retort? Don’t you want to say something about my lips now, _bitch_?” 

Dean pushed against the blade a final time until she gasped, a small trickle of blood pearling down her neck. “I would do _anything_ for my brother,” he leaned in to whisper against her ear, “even let you live.”

He pulled back, lowering his arm. His hands were shaking again but this time from repressed anger. “Any woman who values the life of an inbred animal over a man like my brother is more of a monster than I’ll ever be. I want you gone by the time Sam gets out of here. And if I ever hear of you showing your face around a ring again I swear by Christ I’ll cut it up so badly you’ll only be good for the freak show.”

And Dean walked away, simple as that. He got as far as the door when Ruby gathered her courage again. “You don’t have the guts.”

He turned, lightning fast, throwing the knife toward her head. It caught just to the left of her ear, tangling in her hoop earring. Ruby froze for a few glorious seconds, a small animal caught in oncoming headlights, and then the trembling settled in. Dean could almost hear her teeth rattling across the room.

It _was_ a hell of a shot, not that he’d bothered to aim all that much. “Guess practice _does_ make perfect, huh? Who would’ve thought?”

They locked eyes and kept them locked until the doctor came in, pausing at the scene before him. He cleared his throat. “Uh… Do I need to call security in here?” 

Dean smiled his devil-may-care smile, known for charming little old ladies out of their dollars and their daughters out of their pants. “Nope. We were just rehearsing for an act. Weren’t we, Ruby?” 

Ruby shuddered out a nod, her earring chiming sweetly against the metal of the knife. 

The doctor nodded, still wary. “Right. That means you must be with the circus boy? The one with the lion mauling-” 

“His name is _Sam_. He’s my brother.” 

The doctor must have heard something in Dean’s voice – the way that it cracked on Sam’s name, or the tremble he tried to hide - whatever it was, his shoulders relaxed, the tension bleeding away. “ _Sam_ is out of surgery now. It was touch and go for awhile, but he made it through. We think he’ll make a full recovery, given time.” 

Dean exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, knees going a little weak. He even laughed a little, clapping the doctor on the shoulder.

The doctor smiled, eyes flicking between Dean and Ruby. “I can go over his condition with you now… unless this is a bad time?” 

“No, now’s good. Oh, almost forgot!” He jogged up to Ruby, smiling, and pulled the knife out of the wall where it had embedded a good two inches into the plaster. “You have a nice day now. Remember what we talked about.” 

Then Dean followed the doctor out without bothering to look back.

* * *

Sam was awake by the time Dean finished with the doctor. He was still a little out of it from the surgery, bruised eyes a little spacey as they followed Dean around the room.

He blinked. “Lucifer’s dead, isn’t he?”

Dean’s clenched his jaw. “Yeah. I killed it myself.”

Sam raised an eyebrow but didn’t react otherwise. If he remembered the attack at all he would have expected the cat’s death. “Ruby?”

“Gone.” _If she knows what’s good for her._

“You kill her, too?”

Dean rubbed a hand through his hair, vigorously tugging at his scalp. Flecks of dried blood fluttered down onto his shirt. “No, Sam, I didn’t kill her. I wanted to, but I didn’t.”

Sam nodded, slowly, trying to focus hard through the drugs. “I know you wouldn’t, Dean. You’re a good person, despite it all. Unlike me.” His chin quivered and he looked down at the hands in his lap, twisting the bed sheets into abstract monstrosities. “This is all my fault. I knew he was dangerous but I wouldn’t listen to anyone about him. That scratch Ruby got? I know you heard about it. She probably should have gone to the doctor but I stitched it up myself. We didn’t want to ruin the act.” 

A tear fell from his watery eyes and he winced, though his voice held more anger than pain. “I thought I was strong enough to control him. I thought I could save us. And instead that little girl almost died.”

Dean looked around for a chair, pulling the uncomfortable looking thing close to Sam’s bedside. He wished he was better at talking about this stuff. “It wasn’t your fault, Sam.”

“I took the cage down, Dean. I didn’t think he’d get away from me, but he did.”

Dean rubbed his mouth, tasting iron and wishing for whiskey. “All right, so maybe it was your fault. We’ve all done stupid shit before. The important thing is that you stopped it from happening. Nobody got hurt besides you. And by the way…” He slapped Sam on top of his head, gentler than he wanted to but making Sam jerk anyway, more tears spilling down his cheeks. “Don’t you _ever_ risk yourself like that again, you hear me? I didn’t survive freak shows, crabs, and ‘Nam just to watch my little brother get himself killed.”

“Jerk.” Sam smoothed his hair down, sheepish. “Crabs?”

“Never you mind, Sammy. Some things are between a man and his midget.”

Sam laughed, quietly, and winced again. “Man, I’m really tired.”

“Right, right. You rest up, Sam. I’ll go hit on some of the nurses, butter them up for you.” He stood, shuffling his feet a little. What was he thinking? Sam had just lost his girl and his job, of course he’d want to be left alone. So what if things had almost been good between them for a minute there. 

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Sam?” He stopped at the door, turning when Sam didn’t continue.

His brother was watching him, half out already. “Don’t laugh. Stay until I fall asleep?”

Dean smiled, eyes blurring a little with tears he’d deny forever and a day. “Girl.” 

He sat back down on the uncomfortable chair, holding Sam’s hand. Sam’s head turned toward him on the pillow, eyes fluttering shut, and was asleep within seconds.

Dean stayed awake all night in the chair. His complaints about the crook in his back and the shitty hospital breakfast were what woke Sam the next morning.

* * *

+++

Bobby arrived full of thunder and brimstone, a tempest in a ballcap. Dean thought it best to leave the two alone for awhile, so they could hug and argue and hug again in privacy. He headed outside for a bit of fresh air and was surprised to find Rufus waiting in the parking lot, truck and Airstream in tow.

Rufus raised his hands before Dean could say anything. “Don’t thank me yet, I had to hotwire it since you ran off with the keys. This is practically an antique, you know. When you boys gonna invest in a nice Mountain King like me?”

“When they’re free.” Dean liked the shiny silver Airstream but he wasn’t going to admit it to a hardass like Rufus. He ducked inside to wash his hands and change his shirt, leaving the door open so Rufus would hear him yell. “It ain’t that old, anyway. Can I give you a lift back?”

“Bobby can manage it. ‘Sides, Circadia has to be on the road by ten; wouldn’t do to leave this all by its lonesome in that field. I think they play soccer there on the weekends.”

Right. It was strange to think that after everything only a single night had passed. By all rights the circus should have been well on their way by now. They must have been waiting to hear about Sam. “I appreciate you bringing it around, then. I doubt we’ll be welcome back after all this mess.” 

“Don’t be dumb - of course you will, boy. You’re family, ain’t ya? Bobby takes care of his family. We all do.” 

Dean left Rufus loitering against Bobby’s battered pickup and wandered back upstairs, the canvasman’s words rolling around in his head. Dean bumped into Bobby just stepping outside Sam’s room, almost literally. He tilted his head down the hallway, silently asking Dean to walk him out. 

As soon as the door closed behind him Bobby rounded on Dean. “All right, spill. How is he, really?”

Dean sighed. Sam must have played the _everything’s all right_ card. “They’re worried about limited mobility in his shoulder. We won’t know for sure until he heals up some.” _Removal of damaged muscle tissue_ , that’s what the doctor had said. Fuck. _Deep breaths, Dean._ “Sam’s tough. It was close one, but he’ll be fine. We should be able to move him in a couple days if he wants.”

“Fucking Winchesters. I oughta fire the lot of you.” Bobby tugged at his beard, sighing. “That boy is damn lucky. I’m getting rid of every one of those flea bitten bastards the second I get back. Never did trust cats.”

They walked down the hall to the elevators. Bobby pressed the down button, tapping a hand against his leg. “Stay with Sam as long as you need, then get your asses back home. You’ve got a new act to plot out.”

“But Sam won’t be ring-ready for months.”

“I’m not talking about Sam, you idjit. You’ve been getting better with the knives every day and that last throw of yours was the best knife work I’ve seen since your father. You harness that, toss a couple sequins its way, and you might have something special. And I need another headliner since your brother’s out of commission now. And that reminds me.” He pulled a bundle out of his jeans pocket, passing it over to Dean.

The doors dinged and Bobby stepped in. “Time to nut up or shut up. Find yourself a target girl and you go into Ring One when we hit Fort Worth. Don’t make me regret it, son.”

Dean stood there, mouth hanging open. Fort Worth? That was – fuck, that was in five weeks. He couldn’t put an act together in _five weeks_.

“By the way, Ruby’s disappeared, and all her stuff with her. Don’t suppose you know anything about that, do you?” Bobby’s grin was the last thing to disappear behind the closing elevator doors.

Dean unwrapped the bundle. It was three small throwing knives, washed clean.

Fuck.

* * *

Sam left the hospital against medical advice six days later, under strict instructions not to stress the sutures and to follow up with physical therapy after a few weeks. They suggested a break from the ‘transient lifestyle’ but Sam just stared at them until they let him leave.

Dean spent the downtime flirting with the nurses and emptying the vending machines along the third floor corridor. (It was particularly cruel of the hospital to put the candy in the children’s wing; it wasn’t like the kids could actually eat anything, seeing as how they were meant to get better with healthy foods, not worse with sugar. Dean was just eating for the cause.) Sam watched him devour Twizzlers and Reece’s Pieces and frowned over his hospital-issued generic Jell-o. 

In the interest of sharing, Dean located some of Sam’s favorite treats about three days into his stay. Granted, he probably shouldn’t have slipped the Pop Rocks into Sam’s ice chips without telling him first, but he made up for it by convincing the hot nurse to perform his baby bro’s sponge bath. _You’re welcome, Sammy._

They piled into the truck and headed southwest, making sure to cash in Sam’s prescriptions before they got too far down the highway. It was nice, having Sam in the passenger seat again. Although not everything went back to normal right away, whatever normal might have been. Sam sat with his back stiff, probably in pain, and the cab filled with tense silence - like the jungle right before a sniper would start shooting from the bushes. It wasn’t until the first gas station stop that they said anything.

Sam eyeballed Dean’s can of Coke, watching as we took a sip and grimaced at the taste. “Huh.”

Dean wiped some foam off his chin. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s just… Where’s your flask?”

“What?” 

“Flask.” Sam made the universal _drinking_ motion with the arm not in the sling

“Oh. Cas stole it a couple weeks ago. Said he’d hold onto it until I could be trusted, whatever the hell that means.”

“Huh.”

“Again, what?”

“Nothing, I’m just – surprised, I guess. That’s all.”

Dean raised his eyebrow and stuck out his chin, waiting.

Sam took a deep breath, realizing Dean wasn’t going to let this pass without explanation. “When we used to stop at gas stations you always stayed with the car, demanded candy, and drank a couple shots by the time I got back. Now I’m car-bound and you’re drinking Coke. It’s a little much to take in all at once.”

Dean shrugged, taking another sip and pulling back onto I95. The carbonation tickled his nose. Sam watched him try not to sneeze and smiled, sadly. “I’d heard rumors about what happened with the Indian, but I didn’t actually believe them. You really gave up the drinking, huh?”

“Yeah, well. It was either that or Bobby was gonna feed me to the clowns.”

Sam shivered a little at the thought. He looked down, playing with a string hanging from the bottom of his shirt. “Must have been hard.” 

“A little.” And there was a gross understatement. “Cas helped.” 

Sam looked up again. “How is Cas? He called my room once, asked how I was doing.”

“How the hell should I know? I don’t have a leash on the guy.”

“Well, it’s just I thought you two were close. He followed you around a lot before…” Before Sam and Dean rolled around on the ground like a couple teenagers? Before he got mauled? Before he and Cas almost...

“I don’t want to talk about him, if it’s all the same to you.”

Sam shrugged a shoulder and they drove in silence for awhile. Dean was just running through which eight tracks went best with Virginia highways when Sam humphed in the seat next to him. “So what’s the plan here, man? Do you know where we’re going or are we just gonna drive around until we run out of gas like last time?”

“Hey, that detour in Texas was not my fault and you know it. Who’s supposed to be the navigator here, anyway?” Sam flipped him the bird. Dean flipped it back. “There’s a layover in Raleigh, smart ass, it’s not too far from here. I figure we can meet up with everyone there.”

“Meet up? With Carter Circadia?” Sam frowned, Bitchface #9 making an appearance: _I’m Confused And I Don’t Like It_. “I thought they were done with me.”

“Done with cats, yes. You? Probably not. You know how Bobby is.” Hell, Sam could have been eaten and Bobby’d invite his corpse back with open arms. A slap on the head and a demotion to clean-up duty, but open arms all the same. And wasn’t that a thought: zombie Sam pushing a broom through clown alley. It’d be kind of funny if it wasn’t so terrible.

Sometimes, Dean’s mind was a strange place.

Sam was getting seriously worked up. “To do what? I can’t go in the ring like this. I’m practically useless.” 

“You just worry about healing; I’ll worry about paying the bills.”

“The last time I let you worry about the bills by yourself you wound up in drag on a freak show, so forgive me if I don’t relax just yet.” 

Jesus, there was not enough alcohol in the entire world for this conversation. He took another swig of Coke, swished it around in his mouth, and spit the fuzz out all over his brother.

* * *

+++

Sam and Dean’s triumphant return to the show revealed that Ruby had, indeed, run away into the night, taking her trailer - and all of Sam’s possessions that he’d moved into it – with her. They hit up the Salvation Army for some clothes and the library for some books, but Dean could tell having new things didn’t help lessen the guilt Sam was still feeling. He’d sit, day after day, occasionally offering pointers as he watched Dean pick out the details of the knife routine.

The Airstream had enough depression soaked into its walls – it didn’t need any more. So Dean decided to do something about it.

Sam didn’t notice Dean’s approach until he dropped the little squirming bundle in his lap. “You take this. It peed in the truck; I wash my hands of it.” 

Sam almost dropped the puppy, juggling it between his good arm and his knee. “What-“

“Bobby has a weak spot for dogs. I figure if you start training the runt now by the time your shoulder heals you’ll be ready to show him something. We’ve never had a dog act in the Circadia before.”

Sam stared at Dean, scratching the mutt behind his ears. The fur there was extra soft – Dean made sure of that before leaving the pound.

“Don’t look at me like that, okay? It was you or a lethal injection so it’s not like I can take him back. Just shut up and pet the damn dog.”

“Dean… I thought you’d want me back in the ring with _you_. The old act. From before.”

“Of course I want you with me, loser. I just want you to be happy more. I don’t give a shit about the act.” Sam looked at Dean, eyes the exact duplicate of the puppy yawning in his lap. “All right, fine, you fucking hippy, if you insist on sharing our _feelings_. I admit you were good with the cats, okay? You handled them right, you just… got in over your head a little.” 

He reached over to pat the puppy once on the head. Yeah, still soft. “I thought this time you could start small and work your way up. Minus giving your brother a heart attack.”

“Thanks, Dean.” Sam’s smile was a little wobbly around the edges, forever cementing the fact that Dean was the manliest Winchester. 

He grunted. “Whatever.”

Sam angled the puppy so he could stare it in the face. “I always was more of a dog person, anyway.”

“Yeah. So what are you going to call him?”

Sam’s smile went from wobbly to wicked in 1.5 seconds, a new record in all things naughty.

* * *

Sam called the puppy Hershey.

Dean called Sam a bitch.

* * *

+++

The first time Dean saw Cas after the knife throwing debacle was, ironically, while he was throwing knives.

Sam had been out of the hospital for about a week and almost everyone had been by with well wishes or – to Dean’s delight – slices of home baked goodness. It was a little overwhelming and Sam and Hershey were taking a nap in the trailer, the repetitive _thunks_ of the knives into the wood too much for his drug-addled head. The rest of the Circadia was milling around outside the piecar, another party in full swing. 

So when Cas turned the corner in the new configuration of trailers to discover Dean practicing they were alone. They stood there on either side of the target for a minute, staring at each other. Then Cas took a deep breath and the initiative, crossing to stand next to Dean. He watched Dean fiddle with the knives for a moment then turned to contemplate the target, spinning lazily. Dean had drawn a picture of Ruby on it, to Sam’s mortification.

“I can’t help but think that a real person would make a better target. This artwork is… not ideal. Perhaps you should enlist an assistant for the act? After all: it’s not the thrower who counts, but the target.” 

Dean couldn’t help but laugh – his father used to say that exact phrase. “You’ve been talking philosophy with Sam again, haven’t you?”

Cas shrugged, shifting in the dirt. His shoulder brushed Dean’s. 

Dean stepped away, adjusting his stance and throwing the knife. It hit outside the drawing but not as close as he’d like.

He lifted another knife, memorizing the revolutions of the wheel. “It’s about trust, Cas.”

Out of the corner of his eye Dean could see Cas tilting his head and frowning. It was his _I don’t understand_ expression.

Dean sighed and released the knife. “You’ve got to trust people in this business otherwise we could never do what we do. If your brothers didn’t trust you to catch them they’d never let go of the bar, right?”

Cas nodded, a shadow passing over his face that Dean would ask about if he were braver.

“It’s the same with the knives. The target girl has to trust that I won’t kill her twice a day and once on Sundays. I’ve got to trust that she’ll stay put. And that’s not even the hard part.” The hard part was trusting himself not to hurt her, on _and_ off the stage. Trusting himself to let go of the knife and not hear screams at the end of it. “I always wind up sticking my foot in it somehow. We fuck, I sleep around, she sleeps around, I’m an asshole, whatever. The point is they never stick around longer than a few weeks anyway, so there’s no point in even training with one. I’ll just use the wooden target until Bobby convinces one of the tent bunnies to step in.”

Cas frowned. “It seems the basis of your trouble lies in sex. Is it possible for you to employ a target girl without sleeping with her?”

Dean felt a grin split his face as he raised his arm over his shoulder. “They don’t call it the impalement arts for nothing, Cas. It’s all about penetration.” The knife thwacked into the board. Bull’s-eye, just to the left of the outline’s neck.

Cas was silent for a little while, watching Dean’s body get comfortable with the throwing. After a few practice shots the patterns and rhythm of the spins became almost familiar. The balance came easy but the timing was still proving trickier than it should. If Dean let go of the knives too early they’d fly high; too late, low. He just needed to concentrate… which was difficult with an Angel hovering over his shoulder. 

Dean was just beginning to break a sweat when Cas spoke through the tension. “I trust you, Dean.” 

His hand jerked, sending the knife spinning through the air and bouncing off of the target. Fuck. “Did you say something?” 

“I said I trust you, Dean. Do you trust me?” 

Dean swallowed, thought about all the nights traveling with Cas by his side in the truck, confessions he refused to talk about. He shrugged. “Yeah, Cas, I trust you.”

Cas shifted, walking backwards until his back thudded against the target, stopping its spin. “Then throw the knives.”

“I dunno, man. It didn’t work out so well the last time I threw knives around you.” 

“And whose fault was that?” 

Dean coughed. “Cas, I don’t think you understand. Blunted edges or not these are still real knives-”

“I know that. I’ve been watching you play with them for weeks. Now it’s time for you to use them.” He lowered his head, daring Dean to look him in the eye. “I trust you, Dean Winchester.” 

Dean shivered, raising his arm. “All right. But whatever you do, _don’t move_.”

He took a deep breath, visualized the target in his mind, pictured the limitations of Cas’s body over it… and lowered his arm hard. The knife sailed through the air, turning twice before connecting with a _thwack_ a good foot above Cas’s head. 

“Not good enough, Dean. Is that the best you can do?” 

Dean growled and picked up another knife. He didn’t look away from Cas’s eyes. He didn’t even blink.

Neither did Cas, the knife tucking itself snugly against his arm. Then another by his hip. And another against his knee.

They were both breathing heavily when Dean threw the knife into the board by his neck, the vibrations traveling through the wood and surely tingling up Cas’s skull. His eyelids fluttered closed and open again, and Dean swore he heard a moan.

His fingers passed through open air before his knuckles hit the table – all out of knives. Dean stalked forward, fists clenching around the grips of the knives imbedded above Cas’s head and neck, ready to tear them out and go again..

Cas blinked, licking his lips, and Dean’s stomach flipped over, almost like he was falling. He leaned close into Cas’s space, their knees tangling together again, hands slipping off the hilts to bury themselves in Cas’s shirt. They both gasped, noses bumping, the feeling finally too much—

Their hips touched, dangerously. 

– and then they were kissing. Hot and hard, lips pressed tightly together, teeth mashing under the veil of skin and muscle. Cas opened his mouth and Dean sunk right in, tongue rubbing wetly against tongue. It was perfect, Christ, so perfect .

Someone laughed around the corner. A radio was turned up louder and Hershey barked from inside the trailer. Dean pulled back, gasping for air. Cas followed him, trying to press their lips together again. Dean pushed himself to arm’s length, trying to breathe. “No, Cas, someone will see.” 

“So?” 

“Jesus.” Dean pushed Cas back again, making his own shaky knees take his weight. He stumbled the nine paces back to the knife table, physically in pain – actual fucking _pain_ – from forcing himself away from Cas’s mouth.

Cas was quiet against the target, blinking, catching his breath. Then he started to talk, his deep voice carrying easily across the distance. “I’ve failed before, too, Dean. I’ve fallen so many times training with my brothers and it’s terrifying every time. Your grip slips and there’s a moment when your stomach’s in your throat and you know what’s going to happen but you can’t stop it. Then you’re falling and your heart’s pounding in your chest as the earth comes up to meet you.” 

He moved until he was pressed against Dean’s back, his strong arms wrapped tight around Dean’s shaking ones. “Kissing you is like the feeling of falling.” 

Dean breathed, caught and afraid. “You know what they say about falling: it’s not the fall that kills you, but the sudden stop at the end.” He straightened, pushing Cas’s hands away. “You work without a net, Cas, and it’s an awfully long way to fall.”

“I didn’t start out that way. You always get better with practice.”

“No, Cas. Not this time. It’s not worth the effort to try.” 

_I’m not worth it._

He walked away, leaving Cas alone in the shadows and the dirt.

* * *

+++

Sam didn’t comment on Dean’s sour mood the next week. He just gave him his distance; leaving Hershey behind in places he knew Dean would be alone, letting him have some puppy-time without having to ask for it. It wasn’t what Dean had planned for the circus act/therapy dog, but he had to admit it had its merits.

Dean had just settled down after a long training session – arms like limp noodles – when the door to the airstream flew open. He pushed Hershey aside and sat up. “I wasn’t doing anything!” 

Sam paused, glanced down to where the squirming puppy had obviously been napping on Dean’s lap, and dismissed it with a shake of his head. “Dean, I need your help. I met a girl.”

“What? Oh my god, it’s finally happened.” He leaned out the side window, yelling across the aisle to the nearest trailer. _“Ash, pop the champagne, Sammy’s become a man!”_

“Drank the champagne.” Ash yelled back, holding up a can. ”How about a Bud?” He popped the top, gulping it down in one go. 

Dean scowled, falling back in the window. “Traitor.”

“You deserved it, asswipe. Listen, she wants to join the show. I showed her what we did and she wants to be in the act. She can be your target.” 

“I don’t need a target.” 

“Yeah, you do and Cas doesn’t count. He didn’t seem too happy last time he left here, did he? Come on, man, you know it’s got to be a pretty girl or the audience will never buy it.” 

“Oh? And this is a pretty girl? I don’t like you bringing your tent bunnies into the act, Sam, you know how that ended last time.”

Sam huffed, breaking out Bitchface #6. “She’s not a tent bunny, Dean. I was in town filling a prescription and she was working behind the counter. She noticed I was on some heavy duty pills and didn’t believe me when I said a lion crossbreed attacked me. So I brought her around backstage so she could see for herself.” 

Dean had to admit: ‘injured while saving a small child from a deadly liger’ certainly beat all of his scar stories. And chicks did dig scars. 

He smirked. “You let her go backstage already? You shouldn’t do that on a first date, Sammy, people will talk.”

“ _Dick_. But seriously, she really likes it here and I think she’s got a lot of potential. She’s outside right now –“

“ _Outside?_ Sam, this isn’t the sort of thing you _audition_ for.”

“Just come meet her, please? And try not to be offensive. Or, you know, you. This is a good girl, I don’t want to scare her away.” 

Dean took in his brother’s eager expression, eyes alight with excitement for the first time in forever and knew he’d give the girl a shot, or at least a brief once-over. If he was this hung up on her after one roll in the hay – or was that backstage thing a _date_? Did Sam have _dates_ now? Christ, Dean was getting old.

He pulled himself to his feet and huffed out the door, Sam and Hershey hot at his heels. An Amazon goddess was standing by the rear tire well, legs up to the sky and curves a man could go blind looking at. She straightened and pushed her long blonde hair behind her shoulder, smiling, hoping to make a good impression. The light touched her face in a delicate way, except for the cute mole on her forehead – all that separated her from perfection. Like his and Sam’s, hers was a face made for the spotlight.

_Nice one, Sammy._

Dean was already grinning and wiggling his eyebrows suggestively when he saw his brother step behind the girl, not quite touching her shoulder but close enough to brush the fabric of her dress. His smile was brighter than any Dean had seen since before Sam ran off to college. And suddenly Dean knew – there would be no romps in the menagerie cages, no cocky flirtation, no deliberate attempts to push her out of the act. 

_I’ll be damned_ , he thought. _It really did finally happen._

“Dean, this is Jessica. Jessica, this is my big brother Dean.”

Her hand was warm and soft in his, as small as her smile was wide. “Hi, Dean. Sam said you like to play with knives?”

* * *

Ezra was none too pleased about having to create – or in Dean’s case, update – two costumes in the middle of the season. Dean figured it gave her something to do other than repair rips and busted seams, so he and Sam escorted Jessica into Ezra’s domain two mornings after she officially gave her landlord notice and pulled up stakes to join the Circadia.

Ezra was already buzzing around her tent by the time they arrived, helping another performer slip on a jacket. When she stepped away from the mirror Dean was shocked to see Cas, hair windswept like he’d just gotten down off the trapeze.

He was wearing, of all things, the beginnings of a suit and tie, complete with tan trench coat. He looked so ridiculous in the clothes – and so reminiscent of the accountant Dean first mistook him for – that Dean couldn’t help but laugh

Cas looked up, meeting his eyes for the first time since Dean pulled a runner, and his laughter died in his throat at the blank expression on Cas’s face, the downturned mouth. He looked at Dean as if he were a stranger.

Ezra patted Cas on the shoulders to adjust the line one more time. “The jacket’s a little loose. You want me to take it in a bit?” 

Cas shook his head. “Gabriel assures me it is funnier if I appear careless in my appearance.”

“Hmph. All right, do a couple flips or tumbles or whatever and see how it suits you. Let me know if you feel restrained in any way and we’ll fix it before the dress rehearsal.”

He wandered off a little way, beginning a series of stretches. Dean watched, curious, as the coat billowed out around him like a pair of wings. What the hell did Cas need a new suit for? Dating? Was he going on a fancy date with someone? Why was everybody suddenly going out except for Dean? More importantly, _who the fuck_ was Cas going out _with_? Because if it was some random bunny slut Dean would--

A roll of measuring tape bounced off his forehead. “Dean. Over here.”

Caught, he rejoined Sam and Jessica, calling up his best innocent expression. 

Ezra was squinting at him. “Uh huh. Okay, Romeo, try this on for size while I measure the lovely lady.” She threw a bit of black clothing at him, nodding toward the mirror Cas just vacated.

“What, _here_?” He looked at Cas behind him, Jessica in front. Jess blushed. Cas continued to ignore them.

Ezra patted his cheek, the only woman to get away with doing so since he was four. “If you’re feeling dainty you can always duck behind the curtain, princess. Not like you’ve got anything we haven’t seen before. Though maybe in a nicer package, I’ll give you that.”

Jessica giggled, still blushing, but was distracted when Ezra picked up the measuring tape from where it had fallen on the floor and started measuring. Sam laughed at Dean’s blush for a full five minutes. The asshole. 

Faced with such a challenge, Dean dropped trou with dignity. The costume was in pieces: the flared black pants and boots Dean could live with, but the shirt –

“Why does everything in this place have to be covered in sparkles? I’m not wearing this.” 

Ezra didn’t bother to look up from where her hands were spanning Jessica’s waist. “Silver reflects the light better and brings attention to the knives. You’re the one who has to wear it but Bobby’s already laid out his stamp of approval so unless there’s technical problems I suggest you suck it up and deal. And we’ll never know if there are technical problems unless you _put it on_.”

Sam was clearly enjoying this. “At least it’s not a leotard.”

Dean supposed it wasn’t all bad, compared to what some of the _clowns_ had to wear. Basic black with a high open collar, a shiny dark pattern curving up his ribs and blending into silver over his shoulder blades, tiny bits of metal glinting in the dim light. At least there wasn’t any red.

There was, however, one minor issue. “It doesn’t have any sleeves.”

Ezra was quiet a moment, hands still busy. Sam frowned, too, good humor fading away. “We thought about that. Sleeveless gives you ease of movement and emphasizes the muscles in your arms. Bobby thought the scars would tell a story, get folks interested in the danger of what you’re doing.”

“Sure. ‘Cause rubes are too dumb to know the difference between a knife scar and a burn mark.”

Ezra nodded. “All the same.”

He wasn’t sure if he was okay with this. He’d gotten used to seeing the scar in the shower, or when changing his clothes, or peeking out from under his shirt sleeve, but having it visible for everyone to see? Dean caught Cas’s eye in the mirror. They stared at each other for a moment and then Can walked out without saying anything, passing Ezra on the way.

“Hey, Angel! Don’t forget to send your layabout brother in here. Tell him if he doesn’t get measured soon he’s gonna be performing in his skivvies!”

But Cas was already gone. Jess, sensing the tension, broke the silence that fell in his wake. “I think you look great, Dean. Very impressive. I can’t wait to see what you come up with for me, Ezra.”

“Why thank you, Jessica.” Ezra winked and nudged Sam with her elbow. “This one’s a keeper, Samuel.”

Sam blushed, Jess just smiling at him. He sidled up next to Dean and looked in the mirror at his reflection. “Not bad. Shirt’s a little tight in the middle though – you give her the right measurements?”

“Yes, Sam.”

“Hmm… You know what I think it is?” 

“Sam, I swear to god.”

“Too much pie.” 

Then it was Dean’s turn to blush. “Shut up, catnip!”

Jess just laughed, spreading her arms wide so Ezra could get the fitting right.

* * *

It wasn’t until later that Sam brought it up, after yet another training session ended with Dean flopped into the grass and Jess off exploring the backyard. He lounged in the doorway of the Airstream, trying to teach Hershey to sit.

“What’s up with you and Cas, man? The way you’ve been avoiding him I thought you had a fight or something.”

Dean panted, the smell of new grass tickling his nose. “Just drop it Sam, please? My brain feels like it’s dribbling out of my ears.”

“You can talk to me about it, you know. I’ve got nothing to judge you for.” 

“Sam, I’m really not in the mood for your hippy crap, okay? There’s nothing to talk about.”

“You sure Cas thinks that? ‘Cause the way he was looking at you begs to differ.”

“He’s seen the scars before, Sam.” Seen them when they were red and oozing, raw and fresh. And that was a pretty thought. He was a fucking _Angel_ , all right.

“ _Sit, Hershey, come on._ ” Sam pushed the puppy’s little rump down to the ground, where it stayed for a second before popping back up with a wiggle. Sam sighed. “The scars just made him sad, I think. I’m talking about before then.”

Before then? When had Cas… Oh. 

When Dean had changed and stripped out of his pants. 

_Oh._

He flopped an arm over his face - too late, Sam saw him blushing.

His brother grinned, kicking him in the leg. “Seriously, man, love is love. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

Dean was all kinds of offended (and embarrassed) by Sam’s hippy way of thinking and stormed off in search of more coffee.

* * *

+++

On the night the circus rolled into Fort Worth, Dean returned from his final dress rehearsal to find a stranger in his living room. The man was tall, with dark hair and piercing eyes, something familiar in the shape of his cheeks.

Dean reached for the knives in his vest only to realize he’d left it hanging on the back of the dining bench before changing into his new costume. The man tutted when he saw Dean’s aborted gesture. “Now, Dean, I’m here with a proposition. No need to get excited.”

The man stood and Dean recognized the broad shoulders from the tent months ago, flying through the air with the greatest of ease. Michael.

Cas’s brother wandered around the trailer, looking curiously at all the little knickknacks and things a person gathered after life on the road. He stared for a particularly long time at the poster above Dean’ bed.

“It appears as though we are going to be moving upward in the world very soon, Mr. Winchester. We are being courted by Ringling Brothers – I believe you refer to them as _The Big Show_. I thought I’d extend the offer and invite you along.”

Dean frowned, not sure he was following.

“You can still perform your little knife tricks while I teach you how to be a catcher.” 

“You have a catcher. And anyway, Cas said it was a lot harder than it looked. He trained for years.”

“So he did.” Michael looked back at Dean, hands clasped behind his back. His eyes raked up and down Dean’s body, taking in every detail. They caught on his hips – the costume left very little to the imagination – and continued up to his shoulders and the scar tissue there. Dean shivered, not liking where this was going. 

“Your balance is good already; it showed when you were on the Wall. It’s a shame about the bowlegs, but if you build up your upper body a little more you shouldn’t have a problem transitioning to aerial work.”

“Hey man, my upper body is fine as it is.” 

Michael looked him over once again, this time slowly. He grinned with all his teeth, predatory. “Well, there’s no denying that.” 

Dean gulped, pushing the door open behind him. “ _Fuck you_. And don’t let the door hit you on your way out.”

Michael didn’t move. “I don’t wish any harm to come to this circus, Dean, and I do not like voiding our contract, but I’m not as young as I used to be. My time in the spotlight is very short and I need to protect my life as much as I can. This move will do that. You could do that.”

“I said get out, asshole.”

Michael sighed, walking over to the bench he’d been sitting on earlier. There was a box there Dean hadn’t noticed before and that hadn’t been there when he’d left that afternoon.

“When Castiel suggested we come here I didn’t see the merit in it, at first. But when he explained about his relationship with you and how the nurses told him you were a famous circus star, well – I just had to come see what the fuss was about.” He smiled, licking his teeth. “Odd that he doesn’t want to see you anymore, isn’t it? What could have happened between then and now I wonder?”

He passed the box – surprisingly heavy – into Dean’s hands as he left, calling over his shoulder, “If you happen to come to your senses then I’ll be in my trailer. But keep in mind this is a limited time offer.”

Dean slammed the door behind him, pacing across the small space between the bathroom and the living room. He rubbed at his lip, trying to control his breathing. Fuck, his hands were shaking again.

He dropped the box on the counter and tore it open, expecting anything from a bomb to a severed head, but was surprised to see a glimmer of metal in the middle of all the wrapping. 

Nestled inside the box were two new sets of throwing knives, shiny silver, with no handle - just what he would have picked out for himself. The tips were razors, the edges dull but wickedly curved to look dangerous. He threw one against the bathroom door to test the balance; it soared through the air easily, with the sweetest balance he’d ever had in a knife before. They even fit into the straps on his vest. 

There was a note at the bottom of the box, written in ink on plain paper: _Sam helped. No net, Dean._

* * *

+++

Dean got a little nervous in the alley while waiting for his cue during the matinee show the next afternoon. Okay, Dean got _a lot_ nervous. He almost wanted to throw up, a first for his pre-show jitters. His hands weren’t shaking, thank fuck, but he thought it was a near thing.

“I haven’t been under canvas in over a year.” 

Sam rescued Hershey from nosing through a discarded peanut bag, tucking him close under his uninjured arm. (He still hadn’t gotten the mutt to sit yet but he didn’t seem to be in that much of a hurry.) “Don’t worry, it’s like riding a bike. And you _have_ been doing that.” Dean nodded; Sam had a point. “Just remember: if you get stage fright, just picture the audience in their underwear.” 

“I’ll picture _Jess_ in her underwear.” Sam kicked him in the shin. Jess called him a pig from where she was adjusting her suit in the corner, carefully arranging the thin scarf over her neck and shoulders. 

“Come on, Hershey, let’s go watch my brother kick this thing’s ass.” A last encouraging smile, a kiss on the cheek for Jessica, and Sam wandered off to find a seat.

Jess sidled up next to Dean, fiddling with her skirt. The new costume suited her, tight in the torso but feathered at the shoulders and flared at the hips. The shiny pattern on Dean’s own shirt was mirrored in hers.

She sighed, watching Sam go. “I love that he named the dog after chocolate. It’s so cute.” 

Dean smirked and silently sent some love into the cosmos for his hippy brother, who (almost) always learned from his mistakes. 

Jess took a deep breath. “You nervous?” 

“Nah. This ain’t my first rodeo.” His smile felt fake as hell but he didn’t think Jess knew him well enough to tell.

“Good. I trust you, Dean. Just – Don’t kill me, okay?”

His smile got a little more real, a little more relieved, and he pulled her in for a one-armed kiss on the head. She relaxed in his arms. (Sam was a lucky, _lucky_ guy.) 

A long drum roll and Crowley’s introduction interrupted their moment – that was their cue. They ran out into the center ring, passing the ring crew as they left, everything arranged perfectly in the dark of the tent. Dean positioned himself next to the knife table, Jess at his side, Castiel’s knives in easy grabbing distance. He took a deep breath and counted to three. 

“… the master of blades, Dean Winchester, and his lovely assistant, Jessica!”

When the houselights rose Dean was in full juggle, three of the larger blades sending reflections of the spotlights into the audience. Jess raised her arms, smiling all the way up to the nosebleed seats. He tossed the knives while she pranced to the music around the ring, blowing up a large balloon. Dean dropped the knives into the sawdust blade first - _one, two_ \- then threw the third toward the target board without looking, trusting the timing was right and Jessica had been where she was supposed to be. The balloon burst with a _pop_ in her hand and a gasp from the audience, the knife sailing harmlessly into the wood behind her. She smiled and saluted him with a tilt of the head and a demure flick of wrist. He nodded back, grinning his devil-may-care smile.

They moved on to their next trick, Jessica arranging herself carefully on the block - arms raised above her head, leg tilted just so, coquettishly - and Dean sank the small knives into the scarf just over her shoulders. With a blast of trumpets she twirled downward, landing on her hands with her toe pointed outward, _sans_ scarf. (Jess had taken ballet lessons as a little girl until her height came upon her; it was amazing what the body remembered after a little practice.) He helped her up from the sawdust, holding her hand high in the air. They bowed, quickly, to the cheers of the audience.

Things were simple for a few turns after that, Jessica dancing across the stage while Dean threw knives at her, barely missing her kicks and turns, ruffling the feathers along the small of her back as the blades flew harmlessly into targets behind her. The ring crew worked feverishly behind them the entire time, mounting the finale board and clearing away the other targets as they used them. When everything was ready, a drum roll drowned out the rest of the band.

Dean made his way over to the knife table, very aware his footing had to be exactly in alignment with it. A couple tent bunnies strapped Jessica down to the board and set it to spin slowly. Then they put up the paper screen.

Crowley’s voice echoed through the tent. “Ladies and gentlemen, the act you are about to witness has only been successfully accomplished by three other performers throughout the world. It is the epitome of courage and danger. Those of you with delicate constitutions may wish to avoid your eyes. For all others: silence in the arena, please.” 

In the quiet the drum roll was loud, almost as loud as the pumping of Dean’s heart in his ears. He closed his eyes, counting the number of revolutions in his head, thinking about how quickly the wheel revolved, listening for the small clicks with each quarter turn. They’d discovered that timing and force were the keys to countering the drag of the knives through the screen.

The other moves had been mastered years ago at one point or another; he simply needed to remind his body and brain how to move. But this, this they’d practiced until his arms wanted to fall apart and his hands were bleeding from the knives. He focused inward, trying to drown out the noise of his heartbeat and the watchful gaze of four hundred people. 

He raised his arm – _one_ – counted the beats – _two_ – and let fly – _three_. The crowd gasped, someone may even have screamed. Cymbals crashed and the drum rolled on. Another knife - _one, two, three_ \- and another still. 

The drum roll stopped. Dean opened his eyes to see a tent bunny pulling back the paper, torn in three places, to reveal Jessica spinning serenely on, grinning fit to burst. The knives quivered in the wood on either side of her chest and between her lovely thighs. 

Dean had never heard so much applause for a single trick in all his life.

He exhaled a huge breath, legs like jelly beneath him after the zen of the throw. Jess stepped forward, assisted off the wheel by the bunnies, and grabbed his hand tightly. They bowed three times together, turning in a half circle. 

The crowd was still going insane when they made their exit, cheering, throwing popcorn in the air. (Dean didn’t envy the cleaning crew after tonight.) The alley was full of equally excited circus folk congratulating them with back slaps, hugs, even a few _damn-near-gave-me-a-heartattacks_. 

Sam spun Jessica into a hug, sore arm be damned. He kissed her full on the mouth - a first, Dean knew, despite all his ribbing when Sam had first introduced him to Jessica. Hershey was jumping at their feet, barking excitedly. Sam eventually put Jess down and picked _Dean_ up; even though it was just a few inches, his feet distinctly left the ground. “You! I can’t believe you had your eyes closed the whole time, you son of a bitch!” 

Dean leaned against his brother’s side, grinning, until he noticed the band was playing ‘Stars And Stripes’ (code for cutting a show short) and that the closing parade was rushing to head out around them. Crowley made his farewell speech, thanking people for coming and encouraging them to enjoy the midway on their way out. 

“What’s going on? Aren’t the Angels on deck still?”

Victor stopped long enough to punch Dean on the shoulder – not an easy thing to do while on horseback. “Turns out you’re the finale tonight, cupcake. Angels up and quit, voided their contract this morning. Bobby’s fit to spit.”

“What?” He grabbed Sam’s good arm, pulling him away from where he was making disgusting baby talk with Jessica. “The Flying Angels _quit_?”

“Well, yeah. Cas said they made a deal with Barnum.” Sam must have seen something in Dean’s eyes, because the happiness fell from his expression. He leaned close to be heard over the noise. “Oh, Dean. Didn’t you know? Cas-“ 

But Dean wasn’t listening anymore. He was running through the parking lot of trailers, dodging tent stakes and townies, looking for a shiny set of trailers.

* * *

Cas was gone.

Okay.

Okay, so. So Cas was gone. Without saying goodbye or anything but, still, it wasn’t like he and Dean had been particularly friendly to one another lately. The knives were just a going-away present or something.

And yeah, maybe they’d kissed a couple times, big deal. They were just kisses. The fact that Cas was a guy didn’t mean anything, or that Dean liked hanging out with him, or showing him how to do things on the lot. That Dean could talk to him about stuff and Cas didn’t think it was weird or tell him he was wrong for thinking what he did. It didn’t matter that Cas was his closest friend since Sammy was a baby. That Cas had saved his life in the war.

It didn’t matter. Right? Right. 

Okay.

_Fuck._

Dean never got to say goodbye.

* * *

He wasn’t sure how long he sat on the damp ground where the trailer used to be, staring at the flattened bits of grass the tires had pushed down, but the chill had seeped all the way through his costume pants by the time he mustered enough guts to pull himself together. The show must go on and all that crap, right? Cas and his brothers (the dicks) would make it big at Big Bertha and Dean would stay at the Circadia, cutting through the crowds and the bullshit all by himself.

(Well, Sam was there now but if Jess stuck around Dean had a feeling he’d be offering them Mom’s wedding band from where he’d hidden it in the Airstream and then where would he be? Third wheel to his baby brother? No, thank you.)

Christ, he needed a drink. And fuck it, not like there was anyone left to stop him from having one was there?

He took off for the piecar, intent on his destination and all the booze he could drink, but found himself sidetracked when he tried to shortcut through the midway. Townies were pouring through the narrow gaps between tents and for a moment he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. But no - someone was sitting on top of the cotton candy booth, legs swinging like a four year old over the edge of the awning.

The girl working the booth didn’t seem bothered by him, even slipping a cone of spun sugar his way. And as Dean drew closer he could see why.

It was Gabriel.

The Flying Angel happily tucked into his cotton candy, grinning with pink teeth when Dean stuttered to a halt at his feet. “Deano! Long time no see, man. Heard the knife thing went great, good for you!”

“Gabe, what – what the hell are you doing here? I thought the Angels left.”

“They did. Well, _Michael_ left and Raphael followed him, chickenshit that he is. I like it here, personally. That trapeze thing was getting dull as hell. I’m putting together my own aerial comedy act, it’s gonna be kickass. Plus the free candy is definitely a factor.” He kicked the side of the booth. “Keep it comin’, gorgeous!” The girl punched upward, hitting him strategically right in the ass. “Ooh, she’s feisty. I like that. Besides, since Cas is staying, too, I figured—”

“Wait, wait, Cas? Cas is still here?” 

“Yeah, I know, right? What does that guy know about comedy? But I figure he’ll make a great straight man. Oh, don’t look so surprised, it was his idea. Well, not the act - that brilliance was all mine – but the staying thing was. Said he wasn’t going to back out of our contract. Even called Michael an ass. I’ve never been prouder.”

Dean couldn’t keep things straight in his head. “But your camper’s gone.”

“Yeah, it belonged to Michael. I doubt he planned to leave anything behind, except maybe us. Good thing I moved into clown alley weeks ago.” 

For the first time it occurred to Dean that Gabriel had been left behind by his family, too. “I’m sorry your brothers suck.”

Gabe shrugged, picking at the glue holding the empty paper tube together. “Eh, what are you gonna do? Michael’s been a pain in the ass since he won gold. Honestly? Things have been falling apart since Father left.”

“Your father left you?” And apparently Dean was doomed to constantly repeat everything other people said tonight. It seemed all his brain was capable of at the moment.

“Yeah, while we were touring Europe a few years ago. Think he got a craving for the _motherland_ or something.” Gabe’s voice slipped into an accent on the last part, though Dean couldn’t quite place its origin. “Father didn’t like speaking English and didn’t bother to teach us; we learned it as we went along. Seemed necessary to blend in after awhile. I guess Castiel never felt that way. Combine that with his injury and I suppose it makes him a little more… deliberate in what he says. Always was a serious little flyer, though; that’s why the ass thing was so phenomenal.”

”Injury?”

“Yeah, he hurt his throat in the war. Inhaled too much smoke saving some guy. Won the Medal of Honor for it and everything, he’s real proud of it. Seriously, don’t you people listen to me when I talk? I told you all this months ago when you gave us that crappy tour.”

Dean supposed there were some secrets in a circus, after all.

Gabriel was looking at him slyly through his bangs, feigning innocence. He didn’t do it well. “Castiel never really fit in at home, Dean. I wonder what made him want to stay here.”

“Because.” Dean shook his head, realizing that for all the time spent together he barely knew Cas at all. “You run away to the circus when you don’t have anywhere else to go. That’s why the circus exists.”

It wasn’t exactly an epiphany or anything academics would recognize and label. Lightning didn’t strike his brain and the world wasn’t suddenly made clear. If anything, Dean was just as confused as before but at that moment he knew – for the first time and with crystal clarity – that he didn’t give a shit what anyone else had to say about him. 

That he was _circus_ and that meant he was free. Free to do whatever the hell made him happiest… or _whoever_ made him happiest. 

And he had a strong suspicion he knew exactly whom that would be.

Dean ran off toward the backyard for the second time that night, determined to find Castiel wherever he was hiding. Gabe called after him: “That’s all right, no need to thank me! Nobody ever thanks me. Ah, fuck it, let’s get this show on the road. COTTON CANDY, FOLKS, STEP RIGHT UP! THE MOST SPECTACULAR THING YOU’LL EVER PUT INTO YOUR MOUTH. YES, MA’AM, EVEN YOU WITH THE PRETTY BOYFRIEND! EACH MOUTHFULL A BONEFIDE SPIRITUAL EXPERIENCE! GET IT WHILE IT’S FRESH AND PINK, COTTON CAAAAANDY!"

* * *

+++

It took him awhile but Dean eventually found Cas loitering in the space next to his _own goddamn trailer_. It looked like he was attempting to clear a path through the beer cans at Ash’s place to set down his suitcase.

Dean staggered when he stopped, hunching over to catch his breath. “You’re really here. I thought – I thought you’d left.” 

Cas looked up, expression thunderous. “They expected me to, but they never really needed me. I found what I was looking for here.” 

“But… It’s _Ringling_ , Cas. The Big Show. You could be so much more there--“ 

“I can be more here. I know what I want, Dean, and it isn’t notoriety. I want to belong somewhere. I want peace and freedom. I can’t have that flying with the Angels. I _can_ have it with… with you, _you stupid ass_ , and Sam, and Bobby, and Isaac, and Tamara, and even that stupid dog. You’ve ruined me for this, you see? I ran away _from_ the circus _to_ my family.”

Dean just breathed, taking a moment to watch Cas pace back and forth. “Yeah, I see, Cas. But… _Ash’s_ place?”

“He is the only on with space available on such short notice. I admit, his housekeeping is a little…” he looked around at all the wires, at the window held together by duct tape. “…eccentric, but I am assured there is a bed here. Somewhere. Among the ruin.”

Dean thought fast, going through his options. “You know, Sam’s a terrible roommate. He talks in his sleep. And then there’s the _gas_. Anyway, he’s been thinking about moving in with Jess once the bandages come off. Assuming she’ll say yes.” 

Cas slowed to a stop. “She will. Sam is a very lucky man.” 

“Yeah. He’s smart, too. Seems to think a lot of our troubles come from being too close to each other all the time. He wants to park a trailer next door and be neighbors. Practically _Leave it to Beaver_.” 

“That’s… good, Dean. It will help the two of you keep boundaries.”

“Thing is, he’s expanded a bit since he fell out with Catwoman. His books take up way too much space. I don’t have enough stuff to fill the trailer without him anymore and I can’t abide all that empty space.”

Cas looked at him, frowning.

“And the Airstream’s bigger than it looks on the outside. You’ve been there, you know that.”

“Dean, are you… What are you asking me?”

He inched his way closer, kicking cans out of the way. _This is it Dean, all in. Time to nut up or shut up._ “I can do this on my own, Cas, I have before. But I don’t _want_ to. What’s the point of having a safety net if you never leave the ground?” He grabbed onto Cas’s wrists, holding them still. “I’m an asshole and I’m sorry. I want to be with you. Do you still want that?” 

Cas frowned, looking down at Dean’s hands holding his arms. His voice was a rough whisper. “I do, Dean. But I don’t want that out of pity, and especially not from you.”

He tried to pull his wrists away and Dean gripped him tight, holding on with his strong fingers. “Wait! I – kissing you…” Dean rearranged their hands, palms sliding together, fingers entwined. They were holding hands for real now and anyone could walk by and see. Dean’s heart was pounding in his ears. “I’m afraid of heights, okay? You gotta give me some time to get used to performing without the mechanical, man. I… I’d like to try flying without a net, but I need someone to catch me when I fall. You know anyone who’s good at that?”

Cas looked at him, confused and (hopefully) tempted. Then he tilted his head to the left, lips quirking in a slow half-smile. “As a matter of fact, I happen to know a catcher in the area who is currently without a troupe. He has a partial commitment for a clown act with his brother but he shouldn’t have any problems fitting something like that in on the side.”

Dean grinned, shoulders sagging with relief. He tugged Cas closer by his hands until their chests brushed together the tiniest bit. Their noses bumped and this time Dean didn’t hesitate – he swooped in , kissing Cas with everything he had, pulling that feeling, that emotion up from his chest and pushing it outward, hoping with everything that Cas would accept it. 

And he did. Cas opened to him sweetly, eyes closed, tongue running along Dean’s teeth.

All too soon Dean had to pull away to breathe. “You make me dizzy. Don’t you feel dizzy?”

Cas smiled with his whole mouth, only the second time Dean had ever seen that particular expression. “I hang upside-down all day, I’m used to the blood rushing to my head.” Dean moaned, pressing their bodies together from knee to shoulder and going in for another kiss, openmouthed and dirty, hands sliding up to Cas’s shoulders. Cas shuddered and pulled back, gasping. “Although if you keep doing that…”

“We need to learn how to breathe through our noses. Like swimmers.”

Cas nodded. “Definitely.”

God, Cas felt good in Dean’s arms. Almost too good. He pressed their foreheads together, gathering his courage. “That Hershey thing was just a onetime deal, you know that, right? It was just for the money.”

He was pretty sure Cas sighed, though it was hard to tell when they were sharing the same air. Dean kept his eyes closed, so he wouldn’t have to see Cas’s face. 

“Dad broke his leg and the manager was gonna throw us off the lot. We didn’t have money for gas or food or _anything_ so I had to do something. And one of the freak show guys had come down with pneumonia and couldn’t go on so I said I’d do it.”

“Dean, you don’t have to explain.”

Yes, he _did_. He wanted to. “Turned out the guy did all kinds of kinky shit across the country and the management got a cut so they didn’t say anything. And they expected _me_ to do it, too, only I didn’t want to, I couldn’t do it. I mean, I tried but it didn’t – I didn’t like it.”

“Dean, _stop_. It’s all right.”

Dean gasped in a deep breath, then another, each one tasting like sawdust and sweat. He tightened his grip on Cas’s shoulders and pressed their lips together one more time for just a quick taste. He was really beginning to enjoy that. “Sam doesn’t know that’s the reason we left Detroit in such a hurry. He thinks it’s just because I was embarrassed about the clothes and stuff but I actually kind of liked them. The fabric was nice. Don’t tell anyone I said that, okay? Shaving my leg was a bitch and it itched way too much to do again, but everything else was okay. It’s just…” _Deep breaths, Winchester, count out the beats._ “I don’t know if I could do that stuff again if that’s what you want from me. In case you heard that’s what I’m into or something. _I’m sorry_.”

A feathery touch brushed the hair off his forehead. “Dean, open your eyes.” 

After another breath he did, terrified of what he’d see. Cas was looking at him with shiny eyes, moisture beading on the lashes. “I want you. Do you want me?”

Dean hesitated and then nodded, unsure what Cas was getting at.

“Then that’s all we need. I don’t care what kind of wrapper you’re in or what you do, so long as you’re mine.” Dean let go of his death-grip on Cas’s shoulders with one hand, brushing the tears off Cas’s cheek with his thumb. “Is that – is that possible?”

“I think it is, Cas. I think it is.”

Yeah… Dean was still the manliest Winchester. He was even manlier than the adopted ones, except maybe for Bobby. At least he didn’t cry when confessing his undying love like Cas had. And if he hid his own watery eyes by leaning in for another kiss, then so what? Who would ever know?

They stayed that way for what felt like hours, bodies cocooned in one another, mouths sealed, bathed in the electric midway glow. The barkers came and went, the rubes, too, and Dean didn't care.

(end)

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I’m having a love affair with the comma. It is both passionate and consensual, I assure you.
> 
> I don’t know how to do anything mentioned in this story, let alone ride a motorcycle, throw a knife, or fly on the trapeze. All knowledge is gained from the internet. If anyone reading this does know how to do those things and is aware I got anything wrong, you are awesome and please don’t send the clowns after me. 
> 
> The whole thing was inspired by [this post](http://snarklyboojum.tumblr.com/post/12012429081/gaystiel-au-meme-dean-castiel-circus-au) on tumblr. Turns out ~~wasting~~ spending so much time there does pay off.
> 
> The Campbell Brothers circus actually [exists](http://www.circushistory.org/History/CampbellBros.htm), or existed. 
> 
> So do [ligers](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Liger), in a captive setting. I have nothing against the big cats personally but I thought Dean would, given his previous experiences with animals. I know animals in circuses are a hot topic but I didn’t want to get into the issues of that. They are simply a substitute for demons here (if that wasn’t made obvious in the fic, I apologize). I always thought the manager of Mary’s old circus was Yellow Eyes and the leader of the circus in Detroit where Dean played as Hershey went by the name “Al". But that’s me making a lot more backstory in my head than ever got down on paper. For instance, did you know Bobby was a clown before he moved to Carver Circadia? Hmm? Wouldn’t you like to know the story behind that one.
> 
> Speaking of Hershey, here's a [visual reference](http://sideshows.wikia.com/wiki/Josephine_Joseph) for you. Though for Dean I'm thinking something more along [these lines](http://www.flickr.com/photos/machinedance/1938204021/). (Sometimes a performer doing an act like this was transgender or merely playing a part. Picture teenage Dean with a mustache on one side and lipstick on the other. I actually wrote a flashback scene but it didn't make the final cut.)
> 
> [Here’s the Winchester’s Airstream trailer.](http://gusdog.com/2008/08/14/airstream-4-sale/) In the rough draft I called it the Silver Twinkie. Click the pic for a cool gallery with images from the original interior.
> 
> [This](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:SmirkusRolaBolaHandBalance.jpg) is what Jo does in the circus, now that her Mom lets her. Again, backstory.
> 
> The final act Dean performs was made famous by [The Gibsons](http://www.cvtreasures.com/rare-antiques-memorabilia-c-73/circus-poster-ringling-brothers-rare-gibsons-knife-throwers-40s-p-2033) in the 1930’s and may actually be way too advanced for him. All the other acts are of my own creation. 
> 
> People are still touring on the [Wall of Death](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wall_of_death_%28carnival_sideshow%29) across the country, many of them on original Indians. Go check ‘em out. Oh, and a bit of kismet that never got mentioned in the fic: people used to ride with lions in the sidecar. [Legit.](http://theselvedgeyard.wordpress.com/2009/12/05/the-wall-of-death-daredevils-lions-riders-fairs-oh-my/)
> 
> Gird your loins, ladies: **Jensen Ackles really does know how to throw knives**. [(Go to about 1:10 in this video.)](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L1hrCox6MEw) *fans herself*
> 
> I’ve completely immersed myself in circus lore for this fic. I even contemplated taking clown lessons for about five minutes (a friend gives them for free) before I realized I did enough of that at work as it is. If you’d like to learn more there are a lot of good books and websites available, but the two most influencing things for me were [The Greatest Show on Earth](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0044672/) (Cecil B. DeMille’s best picture winner in 1952 starring Charlton Heston and a practically uncredited Jimmy Stewart) and the PBS documentary [Circus](http://www.pbs.org/opb/circus/) (available to watch online).
> 
> Thanks for reading everyone. I hope you enjoyed yourselves and [don't forget Dags' gorgeous art!](http://daggomus-prime.livejournal.com/32965.html)


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